After Sir Reginald left him, Victor Carrington threw himself into a
chair in a fit of deep despondency. After a time that mood passed away,
and he roused himself, and thought of what he had to do that day. He
had seen Miss Brewer only the previous day. He had learned how much
alarmed Paulina was about her lover's health, and with what good
reason. Victor Carrington came to a resolution that this day should be
the last of waiting--of suspense. He took a phial from the press where
he kept all deadly drugs, placed it in his breast-pocket, and went to
his mother's sitting-room. The widow was sitting, as usual, at her
embroidery-frame. She counted some stitches before she raised her head
to look at her son. But when she did look up, her own face changed, and
she said,--
"Victor, you are ill. I know you are. You look very ill--not like
yourself. What ails you?"
"Nothing, mother," replied Victor; "nothing that a little fresh air and
exercise will not remove. I have been a little over-excited, that is
all. I have been thinking of the old home that sheltered my grandfather
before the sequestrations of '93--the home that could be bought back
to-day for an old song, and which a few thousands, judiciously
invested, might restore to something of its old grandeur. One of the
Champfontaines received Francis I. and his sister Marguerite in the old
chateau which they burnt during the Terror.
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