reached the Abbey.

Years had passed since I had last been Romayne's guest. Nothing, out of
the house or in the house, seemed to have undergone any change in the
interval. Neither the good North-country butler, nor his buxom Scotch
wife, skilled in cookery, looked any older: they received me as if I
had left them a day or two since, and had come back again to live
in Yorkshire. My well-remembered bedroom was waiting for me; and
the matchless old Madeira welcomed us when my host and I met in the
inner-hall, which was the ordinary dining-room of the Abbey.

As we faced each other at the well-spread table, I began to hope that
the familiar influences of his country home were beginning already to
breathe their blessed quiet over the disturbed mind of Romayne. In
the presence of his faithful old servants, he seemed to be capable of
controlling the morbid remorse that oppressed him. He spoke to them
composedly and kindly; he was affectionately glad to see his old friend
once more in the old house.

When we were near the end of our meal, something happened that startled
me. I had just handed the wine to Romayne, and he had filled his
glass--when he suddenly turned pale, and lifted his head like a man
whose attention is unexpectedly roused. No person but ourselves was
in the room; I was not speaking to him at the time. He looked round
suspiciously at the door behind him, leading into the library, and rang
the old-fashioned handbell which stood by him on the table. The servant
was directed to close the door.

"Are you cold?" I asked.