somewhat abashed by the closeness of her observation, and gave tokens of
this state of mind which did not pass unobserved. They seemed instantly
to remind her that she behaved with too little regard to civility. She
recovered herself and began to peruse the letter. Having done this, her
attention was once more fixed upon me. She was evidently desirous of
entering into some conversation, but seemed at a loss in what manner to
begin. This situation was new to me and was productive of no small
embarrassment. I was preparing to take my leave when she spoke, though
not without considerable hesitation:--

"This letter is from Mr. Welbeck--you are his friend--I
presume--perhaps--a relation?"

I was conscious that I had no claim to either of these titles, and that
I was no more than his servant. My pride would not allow me to
acknowledge this, and I merely said, "I live with him at present,
madam."

I imagined that this answer did not perfectly satisfy her; yet she
received it with a certain air of acquiescence. She was silent for a few
minutes, and then, rising, said, "Excuse me, sir, for a few minutes. I
will write a few words to Mr. Welbeck." So saying, she withdrew.

I returned to the contemplation of the picture. From this, however, my
attention was quickly diverted by a paper that lay on the mantel. A
single glance was sufficient to put my blood into motion. I started and
laid my hand upon the well-known packet. It was that which enclosed the
portrait of Clavering!

I unfolded and examined it with eagerness. By what miracle came it