secret I keep from the readers of these lines.

The next day, Mrs. Rymer called once more to make inquiries. Not
satisfied with the servant's report, she entreated that I would
consent to see her. My housekeeper, with her customary kindness,
undertook to convey the message. If she had been a wicked woman,
would she have acted in this way? "Mrs. Rymer seems to be sadly
distressed," she pleaded. "As I understand, sir, she is suffering
under some domestic anxiety which can only be mentioned to
yourself."

Did this anxiety relate to Susan? The bare doubt of it decided
me. I consented to see Mrs. Rymer. Feeling it necessary to
control her in the use of her tongue, I spoke the moment the door
was opened.

"I am suffering from illness; and I must ask you to spare me as
much as possible. What do you wish to say to me?"

The tone in which I addressed Mrs. Rymer would have offended a
more sensitive woman. The truth is, she had chosen an unfortunate
time for her visit. There were fluctuations in the progress of my
malady; there were days when I felt better, and days when I felt
worse--and this was a bad day. Moreover, my uncle had tried my
temper that morning. He had called to see me, on his way to
winter in the south of France by his physician's advice; and he
recommended a trial of change of air in my case also. His country
house (only thirty miles from London) was entirely at my
disposal; and the railway supplied beds for invalids. It was
useless to answer that I was not equal to the effort. He reminded