Markland.

"I don't know what eyes were given us for, if we are not to see with
them," returned Aunt Grace, dogmatically. "But no wonder so many
stumble and fall, when so few use their eyes. There isn't that man
living who does not bear, stamped upon his face, the symbols of his
character. And plainly enough are these to be seen in the
countenance of Mr. Lyon."

"And how do you read them, Aunt Grace?" inquired Fanny, with a
manner so passionless, that even the sharp-sighted aunt was deceived
in regard to the amount of feeling that lay hidden in her heart.

"How do I read them? I'll tell you. I read them as the index to a
whole volume of scheming selfishness. The man is unsound at the
core." Aunt Grace was tempted by the unruffled exterior of her niece
to speak thus strongly. Her words went deeper than she had expected.
Fanny's face crimsoned instantly to the very temples, and an
indignant light flashed in her soft blue eyes.

"Objects often take their colour from the medium through which we
see them," she said quickly, and in a voice considerably disturbed,
looking, as she spoke, steadily and meaningly at her aunt.

"And so you think the hue is in the medium, and not in the object?"
said Aunt Grace, her tone a little modified.

"In the present instance, I certainly do," answered Fanny, with some
ardour.