ever witnessed, shining out of the New England reserve with which Holgrave habitually masked whatever lay near his heart. It was the look wherewith a man, brooding alone over some fearful object, in a dreary forest or illimitable desert, would recognize the familiar aspect of his dearest friend, bringing up all the peaceful ideas that belong to home, and the gentle current of every-day affairs.

And yet, as he felt the necessity of responding to her look of inquiry, the smile disappeared.

“I ought not to rejoice that you have come, Phoebe,” said he. “We meet at a strange moment!”

“What has happened!” she exclaimed. “Why is the house so deserted? Where are Hepzibah and Clifford?”