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by Ann Holland's mother, and carefully covered with
white dimity; but it was only entered on most important occasions.
Even Mr. Chantrey had never yet been invited into it; for any event
short of a solemn crisis the kitchen was considered good enough.
"You haven't heard anything of Mrs, Chantrey, then?" repeated Mrs.
Brown, still in low and important tones, as she seated herself in a
three-cornered chair, a seat of honor rather than of ease, as one could
not get a comfortable position without sitting sideways.

"No, nothing," answered. Ann Holland; "nothing bad about Mr.
Chantrey, I hope. Have they had any bad news of him?"
Mrs. Brown was first cousin to Mrs. Bolton's butler, and was naturally
regarded as an oracle with regard to all that went on at Bolton Villa.
"Oh no, he's all right: not him, but her," she answered, almost in a
whisper; "I can't say for certain it's true, for Cousin James purses up his
mouth ever so when it's spoken, of; but cook swears to it, and he
doesn't deny it, you know. I shouldn't like it to go any farther; but I can
depend on yon, Miss Holland. A trusted woman like you must be
choked up with secrets, I'm sure. I often and often say, Ann Holland
knows some things, and could tell them, too, if she'd only open her
lips."
"You're right, Mrs. Brown," said Ann Holland, with a gratified smile;
"you may trust me with any secret."
"Well, then, they say," continued Mrs, Brown, "that Mrs. Chantrey
takes more than is good for her. She's getting fond of it, you know;
anything that'll excite her; and ladies, can get all sorts of things, worse
for them a dozen times than what poor folks take. They say she doesn't
know what she's saying often."
"Dear, dear!" cried Ann Holland, in a sorrowful voice; "it can't be true,
and Mr. Chantrey away! She's such a sweet pleasant-spoken young
lady; I could never think it of her. He brought her here the very first
week after they came to Upton, and she sat in that very chair you're set
on, Mrs. Brown, and I thought her the prettiest picture I'd seen for
many a year; and so did he, I'm sure. It can't be true, and him such a
good man, and such a preacher as he is, with all the gentry round
coming in their carnages to church."
"Well, it mayn't be true," answered Mrs. Brown, slowly, as if the
arguments used by Ann Holland were almost weighty enough to
outbalance the cook's evidence; "I hope it isn't true, I'm sure. But they
say at Bolton Villa it's a awful lonely life she do lead without Master
Charlie, and Mrs. Bolton away so much. It 'ud give me the horrors, I

know, to live in that house with all those white plaster men and women
as big as life, standing everywhere about staring at you with blind eyes.
I should want something to keep up my spirits. But I'm sure nobody
could be sorrier than me if it turned out to be true."
"Sorry!" exclaimed Ann Holland, "why, I'd cut my right hand off to
prevent it being true. No words can tell how good Mr. Chantrey's been
to me. Everybody knows what my poor brother is, and how he'll drink
and drink for weeks together. Well, Mr. Chantrey's turned in here of an
evening, and if Richard was away at the Upton Arms, he's gone after
him into the very bar-room itself, and brought him home, just guiding
him and handling him like a baby, poor fellow! Often and often he's
promised to take the pledge with Richard, but he never could get him to
say Yes. No, no! I'd go through fire and water before that should be
true."
"Nobody could be sorrier than me," persisted Mrs. Brown, somewhat
offended at Ann Holland's vehemence; "I've only told you hearsay, but
it comes direct from the cook, and Cousin James only pursed up his
mouth. I don't say it's true or it's not true, but nobody in Upton could be
sorrier than me if my words come correct. It can't be hidden under a
bushel very long, Miss Holland; but I hope as much as you do that it
isn't true."
Yet there was an undertone of conviction in Mrs. Brown's manner of
speaking that grieved Ann Holland sorely. She accompanied her
departing guest to the door, and long after she was out of sight stood
looking vacantly down the darkened street. There was little light or
sound there now, except in the Upton Arms, where the windows
glistened brightly, and the merry tinkling of a violin sounded through
the open door. Her brother was there, she knew, and would not be