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.