itself in all its details of the natural, the ridiculous, the selfish, the pitiful, the human.  Glimpses, hints, echoes, suggestions, involving tender sentiments hitherto unknown, we may suppose, to that unclaimed sister’s breast,—­pleasant excitement of receiving congratulations from suddenly cordial friends; the fussy delights of buying furniture and shopping for new dresses,—­(it seemed as if she could hear herself saying, “Heavy silks,—­best goods, if you please,")—­with delectable thumping down of flat-sided pieces of calico, cambric, “rep,” and other stiffs, and rhythmic evolution of measured yards, followed by sharp snip of scissors, and that cry of rending tissues dearer to woman’s ear than any earthly sound until she hears the voice of her own first-born,(much of this potentially, remember,)—­thoughts of a comfortable settlement, an imposing social condition, a cheerful household, and by and by an Indian summer of serene widowhood,—­all these, and infinite other involved possibilities had mapped themselves in one long swift flash before Cynthia’s inward eye, and all vanished as the old man spoke those few words.  The look on his face, and the tone of his cold speech, had instantly swept them all away, like a tea-set sliding in a single crash from a slippery tray.

What could be the “business” on which he had come to her with that solemn face?—­she asked herself, as she returned his greeting and offered him a chair.  She was conscious of a slight tremor as she put this question to her own intelligence.

“Are we like to be alone and undisturbed?” Mr. Gridley asked.  It was a strange question,—­men do act strangely sometimes.  She hardly knew. whether to turn red or white.

“Yes, there is nobody like to come in at present,” she answered.  She did not know what to make of it.  What was coming next,—­a declaration, or an accusation of murder?

“My business,” Mr. Gridley said, very gravely, “relates to this.  I wish to inspect papers which I have reason to believe exist, and which have reference to the affairs of the late Malachi Withers.  Can you help me to get sight of any of these papers not to be found at the Registry of Deeds or the Probate Office?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Gridley, but may I ask you what particular concern you have with the affairs of my relative, Cousin Malachi Withers, that’s been dead and buried these half-dozen years?”

“Perhaps it would take some time to answer that question fully, Miss Badlam.  Some of these affairs do concern those I am interested in, if not myself directly.”

“May I ask who the person or persons may be on whose account you wish to look at papers belonging to my late relative, Malachi Withers?”

“You can ask me almost anything, Miss Badlam, but I should really be very much obliged if you would answer my question first.  Can you help me to get a sight of any papers relating to the estate of Malachi Withers, not to be found at the Registry of Deeds or the Probate Office,—­any of which you may happen to have any private and particular knowledge?”