contrary disposition on the part of Mrs. Ferrars. With all her ambition
and passionate love of society, she was unwilling to return to that
stage, where she once had blazed, in a subdued and almost subordinate
position. In fact, it was an affair of the wardrobe. The queen of
costumes, whose fanciful and gorgeous attire even Zenobia was wont to
praise, could not endure a reappearance in old dresses. "I do not so
much care about my jewels, William," she said to her husband, "but one
must have new dresses."

It was a still mild day in November, a month which in the country, and
especially on the light soils, has many charms, and the whole Ferrars
family were returning home after an afternoon ramble on the chase. The
leaf had changed but had not fallen, and the vast spiral masses of the
dark green juniper effectively contrasted with the rich brown foliage of
the beech, varied occasionally by the scarlet leaves of the wild cherry
tree, that always mingles with these woods. Around the house were some
lime trees of large size, and at this period of the year their foliage,
still perfect, was literally quite golden. They seemed like trees in
some fairy tale of imprisoned princesses or wandering cavaliers, and
such they would remain, until the fatal night that brings the first
frost.

"There is a parcel from London," said the servant to Mr. Ferrars, as
they entered the house. "It is on your desk."

A parcel from London was one of the great events of their life. What
could it be? Perhaps some proofs, probably some books. Mr. Ferrars
entered his room alone. It was a very small brown paper parcel,
evidently not books. He opened it hastily, and disencumbered its
contents of several coverings. The contents took the form of a letter--a