Courthope strolled through the rooms, the doors of which were now open.  Morin permitted this scant liberty chiefly, the prisoner thought, because of a wholesome fear of being kicked.  In the library at the back of the drawing-room he found amusement in reading the titles of the books down one long shelf and up another.  Every book to which Madge had had access had an interest for him.  Three cases were filled with books of law and history; there was but one from which the books had of late been frequently taken.  It was filled with romance and poetry, nothing so late as the middle of the present century, nothing that had not some claim upon educated readers, and yet it was a motley collection.  Upon the front rim of the upper shelf some one, perhaps the dead father in his invalid days, had carved a motto with a knife, the motto that is also that of the British arms.  It might have been done out of mere patriotism; it might have had reference to this legacy of books left to the child-maidens, for whom, it seemed, other companionship had not been provided.

At length Courthope realised that there was one book which he greatly desired to take from the shelf.  The Morin daughter was dusting in the room, and, with some blandishments, he succeeded in persuading her to lay it open upon the table where he could peruse it.  To his great amusement he observed that she was very careful not to come within a yard or two of him, darting back when he approached, evidently thinking that the opening of the book might be a ruse to attack her by a sudden spring.  At first the curious consciousness produced by this damsel’s awkward gambols of fear so absorbed him that he could not fix his attention upon the book; flashes of amusement and of grave annoyance chased themselves through his mind like sunshine and shadow over mountains on a showery day; he knew not which was the more rational mood.  Then, attempting the book again, and turning each leaf with a good deal of contortion and effort, he became absorbed.  It was the Letters of a Portuguese Nun, and in the astonishment of its perusal he forgot the misfortune that had befallen the household, and his own discomfort and ignominy.  The Morin girl had left him in the room, shutting the door.

An hour passed—­it might have been about nine of the clock—­when Courthope began to be roused from his absorption in the book by a sound in the next room.  It was a low uncertain sound, but evidently that of sobbing and tears.  He stopped, listened; his heart was wrung with pity.  It was not the sharp little Eliz who cried like that!  He knew such sobs did not come from the stormy and uncontrolled bosoms of the French servants.  He was convinced that it was Madge who was weeping, that she was in the long drawing-room, where the portrait of the judge hung near the door.

He went nearer the door.  His excited desire to offer her some sympathy, to comfort, or if possible to help, became intolerable.  So conscious was he of a common interest between them that not for a moment did the sense of prying enter his mind.