Mr. Pollard, who in his taciturn gloom seemed like the natural
genius of the spot, appeared to be struck by this same sensation
also, for his eyes wandered more than once to the mirror, before he
summoned up courage, or, perhaps, I should say, before he took the
determination to look me in the face and open the conversation. When
he did, it was curious to note the strife of expression between his
eye and lip: the one hard, cold, and unyielding; the other
deprecating in its half-smile and falsely gentle, as if the mind
that controlled it was even then divided between its wish to subdue
and the necessity it felt to win.

"Miss Sterling," so he began, "it would be only folly for me to
speak as if nothing had occurred but an ordinary and natural death.
It would be doing your good sense and womanly judgment but little
honor, and putting myself, or, rather, ourselves--for we children
are but one in this matter--in a position which would make any
after-explanations exceedingly difficult. For explanations can be
given, and in a word; for what has doubtless struck you as strange
and terrible in my mother's last hours,--explanations which I am
sure you will be glad to accept, as it is not natural for one so
blooming in her womanliness to wish to hamper her youth with dark
thoughts, or to nurse suspicions contrary to her own candid and
noble nature."

He paused, but meeting with no response beyond a rather cool bow,
the strife between his eye and lip became more marked. He went on,
however, as if perfectly satisfied, his voice retaining its
confident tone, whatever the disturbance communicated to his inward
nature.