She had just the look in her eyes the night we all first met her, at Mr.Markrute's at dinner--that strange, angry, pained, sorrowful look, as though she were a furnace of resentment against some fate.

I remember an old colored picture we had on a screen--it is now in the housekeeper's room--it was one of those badly-drawn, lurid scenes of prisoners being dragged off to Siberia in the snow, and there was a woman in it who had just been separated from her husband and baby and who had exactly the same expression.

It used to haunt me as a child, and Mamma had it taken out of the old nursery.

And Zara's eyes haunt me now in the same way." "She never had any children, I suppose ?" asked Lady Anningford.
"Never that I heard of--and she is so young; only twenty-three now." "Well, it is too tragic! And what is to be done?
Can't you ask the uncle?
He must know." "I did, to-night, Anne--and he answered, so strangely, that 'yes, there was something which at times troubled her, but it would pass.'" "Good gracious!" said Anne.

"It can't be a hallucination.