A fit of hysterics was the natural consequence.  The kind and sisterly widow bore, rather than led, Marcia to an upper room, propped her with pillows in an arm-chair, and employed every tender and womanly art to soothe her excited nerves.  Calmness came, but only with exhaustion.  The door-bell rang.  Mrs. Sandford gave an inaudible direction to the servant.  But Marcia exclaimed, “It is George!  I heard his step on the pavement.  I must see him.  Let him in.”  Mrs. Sandford remonstrated to no purpose, and then went to her own room.

It was “George.”  He entered the room with a pale face, and a look betokening both suffering and resolution.  He was evidently struck by the appearance of Miss Sandford, rightly judging that she was not able to bear what he had come to tell her.  He would have uttered a few commonplace courtesies, and deferred his weighty communication to another time.  But Marcia’s senses were preternaturally sharpened; weak as a vine without its trellis, instinct seemed to guide her to clasp by every tendril the support to which she had been wont to cling.  She noticed a certain uneasiness in Greenleaf’s demeanor; ready to give the worst interpretation to everything, she exclaimed, in a quick, frightened manner, “George, dear George, what is the matter?  You are cold, you are distant.  Are you in trouble, too, like all the world?”

“Deeply in trouble,” he answered gravely,—­still standing, hat in hand.

“Trouble that I cannot soothe?”

“I am afraid not.”

“And you won’t tell me?”

“Not to-day.”

“Then you don’t love me.”

Greenleaf was silent; his lips showing the emotion he strove to control.  Her voice took a more cheerful tone, as if she would assure herself, and, with a faint smile, she said,—­

“You are silent; but I am only childish.  You do love me,—­don’t you, George?”

“As much as I ever did.”

A mean subterfuge; for though it was true, perhaps, to him, he knew it was a falsehood to her.  She attempted to rise from her chair; he sprang to support her.

“You are so gloomy, reserved, to-day!” she continued.

Still Greenleaf was silent.  He aided her to resume her seat; but when he had done so, she detained him, seizing his arm and then his hand.  His heart beat rapidly, and he turned away his head to avoid the fond but keen scrutiny of her eyes,—­at the same time gently, but ineffectually, attempting to free his hand.  Once more he resolved, since the conversation had taken such a turn, to risk the consequences, and prepare her mind for a separation.  But a sudden thought struck her, and, before he could frame a sentence, she spoke:—­

“You have heard bad news this morning?”

He shook his head.

“No,—­I know you are not mercenary; I would not wrong you with the suspicion.”

“What suspicion, pray?” he asked, turning suddenly towards her.