"He is nothing but a ninny!" she said to Grace; "and has eyes for no one but Kate. Oh, how I wish my darling Jules were here, or even your brother, Grace—he was better than no one!"

"My brother is very much obliged to you."

"You talk to me of my flirting propensities," continued the exasperated Rose. "I should like to know what you call Kate's conduct with that little Scotchman."

"Friendship, my dear," Grace answered, repressing a smile.

"Remember, they have known each other for years."

"Friendship! Yes; it would be heartless coquetry if it were I. I hope Lieutenant Reginald Stanford, of Stanford Royals, will like it when he comes. Sir Ronald Keith is over head and ears in love with her, and she knows it, and is drawing him on. A more cold-blooded flirtation no one ever saw!"

"Nonsense, Rose! It is only a friendly intimacy."

But Rose, unable to stand this, bounced out of the room in a passion, and sought consolation in her pet novels.

Kate and Sir Ronald were certainly very much together; but, notwithstanding their intimacy, she found time to devote two or three hours every day to Mr. Richards. Rose's mystery was her mystery still. She could get no further towards its solution. Mr. Richards might have been a thousand miles away, for all any of the household saw of him; and Grace, in the solitude of her own chamber, wondered over it a good deal of late.

She sat at her window one December night, puzzling herself about it. Kate had not come down to dinner that day—she had dined with the invalid in his rooms. When she had entered the drawing-room about nine o'clock, she looked pale and anxious, and was absent and distraite all the evening. Now that the house was still and all were in their rooms, Grace was wondering. Was Mr. Richards worse? Why, then, did they not call in a Doctor? Who could he be, this sick stranger, in whom father and daughter were so interested? Grace could not sleep for thinking of it. The night was mild and bright, and she arose, wrapped a large shawl around her, and took her seat by the window. How still it was, how solemn, how peaceful! The full moon sailed through the deep blue sky, silver-white, crystal-clear. Numberless stars shone sharp and keen. The snowy ground glittered dazzlingly bright and cold; the trees stood like grim, motionless sentinels, guarding Danton Hall. The village lay hushed in midnight repose; the tall cross of the Catholic and the lofty spire of the Episcopal church flashed in the moon's rays. Rapid river and sluggish canal glittered in the silvery light. The night was noiseless, hushed, beautiful.

No; not noiseless. A step crunched over the frozen snow; from under the still shadow of the trees a moving shadow came. A man, wrapped in a long cloak, and with a fur cap down over his eyes, came round the angle of the building and began pacing up and down the terrace. Grace's heart stood still for an instant. Who was this midnight walker? Not Sir Ronald Keith watching his lady's lattice—it was too tall for him. Not the Captain—the cloaked figure was too slight. No one Grace knew, and no ghost; for he stood still an instant, lit a cigar, and resumed his walk, smoking. He had loitered up and down the terrace for about a quarter of an hour, when another figure came out from the shadows and joined him. A woman this time, with a shawl wrapped round her, and a white cloud on her head. The moonlight fell full on her face—pale and beautiful. Grace could hardly repress a cry—it was Kate Danton.

The smoker advanced. Miss Danton took his arm, and together they walked up and down, talking earnestly. Once or twice Kate looked up at the darkened windows; but the watcher was not to be seen, and they walked on. Half an hour, an hour, passed; the hall clock struck one, and then the two midnight pedestrians disappeared round the corner and were gone.

The moments passed, and still Grace sat wondering, and of her wonder finding no end. What did it mean? Who was this man with whom the proudest girl the sun ever shone on walked by stealth, and at midnight? Who was he? Suddenly in the silence and darkness of the coming morning, a thought struck her that brought the blood to her face.

"Mr. Richards."

She clasped her hands together. Conviction as positive as certainty thrilled along every nerve. Mr. Richards, the recluse, was the midnight walker—Mr. Richards, who was no invalid at all; and who, shut up all day, came out in the dead of night, when the household were asleep, to take the air in the grounds. There, in the solemn hush of her room, Rose's thoughtless words came back to her like a revelation.

"Where there is secrecy there is guilt."

When the family met at breakfast, Grace looked at Kate with a new interest. But the quiet face told nothing; she was a little pale; but the violet eyes were as starry, and the smile as bright as ever. The English mail had come in, and letters for her and her father lay on the table. There was one, in a bold, masculine hand, with a coat-of-arms on the seal, that brought the rosy blood in an instant to her face. She walked away to one of the windows, to read it by herself. Grace watched the tall, slender figure curiously. She was beginning to be a mystery to her.

"She is on the best of terms with Sir Ronald Keith," she thought; "she meets some man by night in the grounds, and the sight of this handwriting brings all the blood in her body to her face. I suppose she loves him; I suppose he loves her. I wonder what he would think if he knew what I know."

The morning mail brought Rose a letter from Ottawa, which she devoured with avidity, and flourished before Grace's eyes.

"A love letter, Mistress Grace," she said. "My darling Jules is dying to have me back. I mean to ask papa to let me go. It is as dull as a monastery of La Trappe here."

"What's the news from England, Kate?" asked her father, as they all sat down to table.

The rosy light was at its brightest in Kate's face, but Sir Ronald looked as black as a thunder cloud.

"Everybody is well, papa."

"Satisfactory, but not explanatory. Everybody means the good people at Stanford Royals, I suppose?"

"Yes, papa."

"Where is Reginald?"

"At Windsor. But his regiment is ordered to Ireland."

"To Ireland! Then he can't come over this winter?"

"I don't know. He may get leave of absence."

"I hope so—I hope so. Capital fellow is Reginald. Did you see him before you left England, Sir Ronald?"

"I met Lieutenant Stanford at a dinner party the week I left," said Sir Ronald, stiffly—so stiffly, that the subject was dropped at once.

After breakfast, Captain Danton retired to his study to answer his letters, and Sir Ronald and Kate started for their morning ride across the country. She had invited Rose to accompany them, and Rose had rather sulkily declined.

"I never admire spread-eagles," sneered the second Miss Danton, "and I don't care for being third in these cases—I might be de trop. Sir Ronald Keith's rather a stupid cavalier. I prefer staying at home, I thank you."

"As you please," Kate said, and went off to dress.

Rose got a novel, and sat down at the upper half window to mope and read. The morning was dark and overcast, the leaden sky threatened snow, and the wailing December wind was desolation itself. The house was very still; faint and far off the sound of Eeny's piano could be heard, and now and then a door somewhere opening and shutting. Ogden came from Mr. Richards' apartment, locked the door after him, put the key in his pocket, and went away. Rose dropped her book and sat gazing at that door—that Bluebeard's chamber—that living mystery in their common-place Canadian home. While she looked at it, some one came whistling up the stairs. It was her father, and he stopped at sight of her.

"You here, Rose, my dear; I thought you had gone out riding with Kate."

"Kate doesn't want me, papa," replied Rose, with a French shrug. "She has company she likes better."

"What, Sir Ronald! Nonsense, Rose! Kate is Sir Ronald's very good friend—nothing more."

Rose gave another shrug.

"Perhaps so, papa. It looks like flirting, but appearances are deceitful. Papa!"

"Yes, my dear."

"I wish you would let me go back to Ottawa!"

"To Ottawa! Why, you only left it the other day. What do you want to go back to Ottawa for?"

"It's so dull here, papa," answered Rose, fidgeting with her book, "and I had such a good time there. I shall die of the dismals in this house before the winter is over."

"Then we must try and enliven it up a little for you. What would you like, a house-warming?"

"Oh, papa! that would be delightful."

"All right, then, a house-warming it shall be. We must speak to Grace and Kate about it; hold a council of war, you know, and settle preliminaries. I can't spare my little Rosie just yet, and let her run away to Ottawa."

Rose gave him a rapturous kiss, and Captain Danton walked away, unlocked the green baize door, and disappeared.

When Kate came back from her ride, Rose informed her of her father's proposal with sparkling eyes. Kate listened quietly, and made no objection; neither did Grace; and so the matter was decided.

Rose had no time to be lonely after that. Her father gave her carte blanche in the matter of dress and ornament, and Miss Rose's earthly happiness was complete. She, and Kate, and Grace went to Montreal to make the necessary purchases, to lasso dressmakers and fetch them back to St. Croix.

"I know a young woman I think will suit you," said Ma'am Ledru, the cook. "She is an excellent dressmaker and embroideress; very poor, and quite willing, I am sure, to go into the country. Her name is Agnes Darling, and she lives in the Petite Rue de Saint Jacques."

Rose hastened to the Petite Rue de Saint Jacques at once, and in a small room of a tenement house found the seamstress; a little pale, dark-eyed, dark-haired creature, with a face that was a history of trouble, though her years could not have numbered twenty. There was no difficulty in engaging her: she promised to be ready to return with them to St. Croix the following morning.

They only spent two days in the city, and were, of course, very busy all the time. Grace took a few moments to try and find her brother, but failed. He was not to be heard of at his customary address; he had been talking of quitting Montreal, they told her there; probably he had done so.

The Dantons, with the pale little dressmaker, returned next day, all necessaries provided. The business of the house-warming commenced at once. Danton Hall—ever spotless under the reign of Grace—was rubbed up and scrubbed down from garret to cellar. Invitations were sent out far and wide. Agnes Darling's needle flew from early dawn till late at night; and Grace and the cook, absorbed in cake and jelly-making, were invisible all day long in the lower regions. Eeny and Rose went heart and soul into the delightful fuss, all new to them, but Kate took little interest in it. She was Sir Ronald's very good friend still, and, like Mrs. Micawber, never deserted him. Captain Danton hid his diminished head in his study, in Mr. Richard's rooms, or took refuge with the Cure from the hubbub.

The eventful night at last came round, clear, cold, and near Christmas. The old ball-room of Danton Hall, disused so long, had been refitted, waxed, and decorated; the long drawing-room was resplendent; the supper table set in the dining-room was dazzling to look at, with silver, Sevres, and glittering glass; the dressing-rooms were in a state of perfection; the servants all en grande tenue; and Danton Hall one blaze of light. In the bedroom regions the mysteries of the toilet had been going on for hours. Eunice was busy with her mistress; Agnes the seamstress was playing femme de chambre to Rose. Grace dressed herself in twenty minutes, and then dressed Eeny, who only wore pink muslin and a necklace of pearls, and looked fairy-like and fragile as ever. Grace, in gray silk, with an emerald brooch, and her brown hair simply worn as she always wore it, looked lady-like and unassuming.

The guests came by the evening train from Montreal, and the carriages of the nearer neighbours began coming in rapid succession. Kate stood by her cordial father's side, receiving their guests. So tall, so stately, so exquisitely dressed—all the golden hair twisted in thick coils around her regal head, and one diamond star flashing in its amber glitter. Lovely with that flush on the delicate cheeks, that streaming light in the blue eyes.

Rose was eclipsed. Rose looking her best, and very pretty, but nothing beside her queenly sister. But Rose was very brilliant, flitting hither and thither, dancing incessantly, and turning whiskered heads in all directions. They could fall in love with pretty, coquettish Rose, those very young gentlemen, who could only look at Kate from a respectful distance in speechless admiration and awe. Rose was of their kind, and they could talk to her; so Rose was the belle of the night, after all.

Sir Ronald Keith and two or three officers from Montreal, with side whiskers, a long pedigree, and a first-rate opinion of themselves, were the only gentlemen who had the temerity to approach the goddess of the ball—oh! excepting the Reverend Augustus Clare, who, in his intense admiration, was almost tongue-tied, and Doctor Danton, who, to the surprise of every one except the master of the Hall, walked in, the last guest of all.

"You look surprised, Miss Danton," he said, as they shook hands. "Did not the Captain tell you I was coming?"

"Not a word."

"I returned to-day, knowing nothing of the house-warming. The Captain met me, and, with his customary hospitality, insisted on my coming."

"We are very glad he has done so. Your sister tried to find you when we were in—good Heaven! what is that?"

It was a sudden, startled scream, that made all pause who were standing near. Butler Thomas appeared at the moment, flurried and in haste.

"What's the matter?" asked Captain Danton; and the startled faces of his guests reiterated the question. "Who cried out?"

"Old Margery, sir. She's seen a ghost!"

"Seen what?"

"A ghost, sir; out in the tamarack walk?—She's fell down in a fit in the hall."

There was a little chorus of startled exclamations from the ladies. Captain Danton came forward, his florid face changing to white; and Kate, all her colour gone, dropped her partner's arm.

"Come with me, Doctor Danton," he said. "Yes, Kate, you too. My friends, do not let this foolish affair disturb you. Excuse us for a few moments, and pray go on as if nothing had happened."

They left the ball-room together. The music, that had stopped, resumed; dancing recommenced, and "all went merry as a marriage-bell." There was only one, perhaps, who thought seriously of what had taken place. Grace, standing near the door talking to an elderly major from the city, heard Thomas' last words to his master as they went out.

"Ogden says it was him she seen, but Margery won't listen to him. Ogden says he was out in the tamarack walk, and she mistook him in the moonlight for a ghost."

Grace's thoughts went back to the night when she had seen the mysterious walker under the tameracks. No, it was not Ogden, that old Margery had seen, else Captain Danton and his daughter would not have worn such pale and startled faces going out.

It was not Ogden, and it was not a ghost; but whose ghost did Margery take it to be? The apparition in the tamarack walk must have resembled some one she knew and now thought to be dead, else why should she think it a spirit at all?

The whiskered major, who took Grace for one of the Captain's daughter's, and was slightly ebris, found her very distraite all of a sudden, and answering his questions vaguely and at random. He did his best to interest her, and failed so signally that he got up and left in disgust.

Grace sat still and watched the door. Half an hour passed—three-quarters, and then her brother re-entered alone. She went up to him at once, but his unreadable face told nothing.

"Well," she asked, anxiously, "how is Margery?"

"Restored and asleep."

"Does she really think she saw a ghost?"

"She really does, and was frightened into fits."

"Whose ghost was it?"

"My dear Grace," said the Doctor, "have sense. I believe the foolish old woman mentioned some name to Miss Danton, but I never repeat nonsense. She is in her dotage, I dare say, and sees double."

"Margery is no more in her dotage than you are," said Grace, vexed. "Perhaps she is not the only one who has seen the ghost of Danton Hall."

"Grace! What do you mean?"

"Excuse me, Doctor Frank, I never talk nonsense. You can keep your professional secrets; I'll find out from Margery all the same. Here is the Captain; he looks better than when he went out. Where is Kate?"

"With Margery. She won't be left alone."

As she spoke, Rose came up, her brightest smiles in full play.

"I have been searching for you everywhere, Doctor Frank. You ought to be sent to Coventry. Don't you know you engaged me for the German, and here you stand talking to Grace. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir."

"So I am," said the Doctor. "Adieu, Grace. Pardon this once, Mademoiselle, and for the remainder of the evening, for the remainder of my life, I am entirely at your service."

Grace kept her station at the door watching for Kate. In another half hour she appeared, slightly pale, but otherwise tranquil. She was surrounded immediately by sundry "ginger-whiskered fellows," otherwise the officers from Montreal, and lost to the housekeeper's view.

The house-warming was a success. Somewhere in the big, busy world perhaps, crime, and misery, and shame, and sorrow, and starvation, and all the catalogue of earthly horrors, were rife, but not at Danton Hall. Time trod on flowers; enchanted music drifted the bright hours away; the golden side of life was uppermost; and if those gay dancers knew what tears and trouble meant, their faces never showed it. Kate, with her tranquil and commanding beauty, wore a face as serene as a summer's sky; and her father playing whist, was laughing until all around laughed in sympathy. No, there could be no hidden skeleton, or the masks those wore who knew of its grisly presence were something wonderful.

In the black and bitterly cold dawn of early morning the dancers went shivering home. The first train bore the city guests, blue and fagged, to Montreal; and Doctor Frank walked briskly through the piercing air over the frozen snow to his hotel. And up in her room old Margery lay in disturbed sleep, watched over by dozing Babette, and moaning out at restless intervals.

"Master Harry! Master Harry! O Miss Kate! it was Master Harry's ghost!"



CHAPTER VI.

ROSE'S ADVENTURE.

December wore out in wild snow-storms and wintry winds. Christmas came, solemn and shrouded in white; and Kate Danton's fair hands decorated the little village church with evergreens and white roses for Father Francis; and Kate Danton's sweet voice sang the dear old "Adeste Fideles" on Christmas morning. Kate Danton, too, with the princely spirit that nature and habit had given her, made glad the cottages of the poor with gifts of big turkeys, and woolly blankets, and barrels of flour. They half adored, these poor people, the stately young lady, with the noble and lovely face, so unlike anything St. Croix had ever seen before. Proud as she was, she was never proud with them—God's poor ones; she was never proud when she knelt in their midst, in that lowly little church, and cried "Mea culpa" as humbly as the lowliest sinner there.

New-Year came with its festivities, bringing many callers from Montreal, and passed; and Danton Hall fell into its customary tranquillity once more. Sir Ronald Keith was still their guest; Doctor Frank was still an inmate of the St. Croix Hotel, and a regular visitor at the Hall. More letters had come for Kate from England; Lieutenant Stanford's regiment had gone to Ireland, and he said nothing of leave of absence or a visit to Canada. Rose got weekly epistles from Ottawa; her darling Jules poured out floods of undying love in the very best French, and Rose smiled over them complacently, and went down and made eyes at Doctor Frank all the evening. And old Margery was not recovered yet from the ghost-seeing fright, and would not remain an instant alone by night or day for untold gold.

The sunset of a bright January day was turning the western windows of Danton Hall to sheets of beaten gold. The long, red lances of light pierced through the black trees, tinged the piled up snow-drifts, and made the low evening sky one blaze of crimson splendour. Eeny stood looking thoughtfully out at the gorgeous hues of the wintry sunset and the still landscape, where no living thing moved. She was in a cozy little room called the housekeeper's room, but which Grace never used, except when she made up her accounts, or when her favourite apartment, the dining-room, was occupied. A bright fire burned in the grate, and the curtained windows and carpeted floor were the picture of comfort. It had been used latterly as a sewing-room, and Agnes Darling sat at the other window embroidering a handkerchief for Rose. There had been a long silence—the seamstress never talked much; and Eeny was off in a daydream. Presently, a big dog came bounding tumultuously up the avenue, and a tall man in an overcoat followed leisurely.

"There!" exclaimed Eeny, "there's Tiger and Tiger's master. You haven't seen Grace's brother yet, have you Agnes?"

"No," said the seamstress, looking out, "is that he?"

He was too far off to be seen distinctly; but a moment or two later he was near. A sudden exclamation from the seamstress made Eeny look at her in surprise. She had sprang up and sat down again, white, and startled, and trembling.

"What's the matter?" said Eeny. "Do you know Doctor Danton?"

"Doctor Danton?" repeated Agnes. "Yes. Oh, what am I saying! No, I don't know him."

She sat down again, all pale and trembling, and scared. Doctor Frank was ringing the bell, and was out of sight. Eeny gazed at her exceedingly astonished.

"What is the matter with you?" she reiterated. "What are you afraid of? Do you know Doctor Danton?"

"Don't ask me; please don't ask me!" cried the little seamstress, piteously. "I have seen him before; but, oh, please don't say anything about it!"

She was in such a violent tremor—her voice was so agitated, that Eeny good-naturedly said no more. She turned away, and looked again at the paling glory of the sunset, not seeing it this time, but thinking of Agnes Darling's unaccountable agitation at sight of Grace's brother.

"Perhaps he has been a lover of hers," thought romantic Eeny, "and false! She is very pretty, or would be, if she wasn't as pale as a corpse. And yet I don't think Doctor Frank would be false to any one either. I don't want to think so—I like him too well."

Eeny left the sewing-room and went upstairs. She found Doctor Danton in the dining-room with his sister and Rose, and Rose was singing a French song for him. Eeny took her station by the window; she knew the seamstress was in the daily habit of taking a little twilight walk in her favourite circle, round and round the fish-pond, and she could see from where she stood when she went out.

"I'll show her to him," thought Eeny, "and see if it flurries him as it did her. There is something between them, if one could get to the bottom of it."

Rose's song ended. The sunset faded out in a pale blank of dull gray—twilight fell over the frozen ground. A little black figure, wearing a shawl over its head, fluttered out into the mysterious half-light, and began pacing slowly round the frozen fish-pond.

"Doctor Frank," said Eeny, "come here and see the moon rise."

"How romantic!" laughed Rose. But the Doctor went and stood by her side.

The wintry crescent-moon was sailing slowly up, with the luminous evening star resplendent beside her, glittering on the whitened earth.

"Pretty," said the Doctor; "very. Solemn, and still, and white! What dark fairy is that gliding round the fish-pond?"

"That," said Eeny, "is Agnes Darling."

"Who?" questioned Doctor Danton, suddenly and sharply.

"Agnes Darling, our seamstress. Dear me, Doctor Danton, one would think you knew her!"

There had been a momentary change in his face, and Eeny's suspicious eyes were full upon him—only momentary, though; it was gone directly, and his unreadable countenance was as calm as a summer's sky. Doctor Frank might have been born a duke, so radically and unaffectedly nonchalant was he.

"The name has a familiar sound; but I don't think I know your seamstress. Go and play me a waltz, Eeny."

There was no getting anything out of Doctor Danton which he did not choose to tell. Eeny knew that, and went over to the piano, a little provoked at the mystery they made of it.

But destiny that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will, had made up its mind for further revelations, and against destiny even Doctor Frank was powerless. Destiny lost no time either—the revelation came the very next evening. Kate and Eeny had been to St. Croix, visiting some of Kate's poor pensioners, and evening was closing in when they reached the Hall. A lovely evening—calm, windless, still; the moon's silver disk brilliant in an unclouded sky, and the holy hush of eventide over all. The solemn beauty of the falling night tempted Kate to linger, while Eeny went on to the house. There was a group of tall pines, with a rustic bench, near the entrance-gates. Kate sat down under the evergreens, leaning against the trees, her dark form scarcely distinguishable in their shadow. While she sat, a man and a woman passed. Full in the moonlight she saw that it was Doctor Danton and Agnes Darling. Distinct in the still keen air she heard his low, earnest words.

"Don't betray yourself—don't let them see you know me. Be on your guard, especially with Eeny, who suspects. It will avoid disagreeable explanations. It is best to let them think we have never met."

They were gone. Kate sat petrified. What understanding was this between Doctor Danton and their pale little seamstress? They knew each other, and there were reasons why that acquaintance should be a secret. "It would involve disagreeable explanations!" What could Doctor Frank mean? The solution of the riddle that had puzzled Eeny came to her. Had they been lovers at some past time?—was Doctor Frank a villain after all?

The moon sailed up in the zenith, the blue sky was all sown with stars, and the loud ringing of the dinner-bell reached her even where she sat. She got up hastily, and hurried to the house, ran to her room, threw off her bonnet and shawl, smoothed her hair, and descended to the dining-room in her plain black silk dress. She was late; they were all there—her father, Grace, Rose, Eeny, Sir Ronald, the Reverend Augustus Clare, and Doctor Danton.

"Runaway," said her father, "we had given you up. Where have you been?"

"Star-gazing, papa. Down under the pines, near the gates, until five minutes ago."

Doctor Frank looked up quickly, and met the violet eyes fixed full upon him.

"I heard you, sir," that bright glance said. "Your secret is a secret no longer."

Doctor Danton looked down at his plate with just a tinge of colour in his brown face. He understood her as well as if she had spoken; but, except that faint and transient flush, it never moved him. He told them stories throughout dinner of his adventures as a medical student in Germany, and every one laughed except Kate. She could not laugh; the laughter of the others irritated her. His words going up the avenue rang in her ears; the pale, troubled face of the seamstress was before her eyes. Something in the girl's sad, joyless face had interested her from the first. Had Doctor Danton anything to do with that look of hopeless trouble?

With this new interest in her mind, Kate sent for the seamstress to her room next morning. Some lace was to be sewn on a new dress. Eunice generally did such little tasks for her mistress, but on this occasion it was to be Agnes. The girl sat down with the rich robe by the window, and bent assiduously over her work. Miss Danton, in a loose negligee, lying half buried in the depths of a great carved and cushioned chair, watched her askance while pretending to read. What a slender, diminutive creature she was—how fixedly pale, paler still in contrast with her black hair and great, melancholy dark eyes. She never looked up—she went on, stitch, stitch, like any machine, until Kate spoke, suddenly:

"Agnes!"

The dark eyes lifted inquiringly.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"You don't look it. Are your parents living?"

"No; dead these many years."

"Have you brothers or sisters?"

"No, I never had."

"But you have other relatives—uncles, aunts, cousins?"

"No, Miss Danton—none that I have ever seen."

"What an isolated little thing you are! Have you lived in Montreal all your life?"

"Oh, no! I have only been in Montreal a few months. I was born and brought up in New York."

"In New York!" repeated Kate, surprised. And then there was a pause. When had Doctor Danton been in New York? For the last four years he had been in Germany; from Germany he had come direct to Canada, so Grace had told her; where, then, had he known this New York girl?

"Why did you come to Montreal?" asked Kate.

There was a nervous contraction around the girl's mouth, and something seemed to fade out of her face—not color, for she had none—but it darkened with something like sudden anguish.

"I had a friend," she said hastily, "a friend I lost; I heard I might find that—that friend in Montreal, and so—"

Her voice died away, and she put up one trembling hand to shade her face. Kate came over and touched the hand lying on her black dress, caressingly. She forgot her pride, as she often forgot it in her womanly pity.

"My poor little Agnes! Did you find that friend?"

"No."

"No?" repeated Kate.

She thought the reply would be "yes"—she had thought the friend was Doctor Frank. Agnes dropped her hand from before her face.

"No," she said sadly, "I have not found him. I shall never find him again in this world, I am afraid."

Him! That little tell-tale pronoun! Kate knew by instinct the friend was "him," men being at the bottom of all womanly distress in this lower world.

"Then it was not Doctor Danton?"

Agnes looked up with a suddenly frightened face, her great eyes dilating, her pale lips parting.

"I saw you by accident coming up the avenue with him last evening," Kate hastened to explain. "I chanced to hear a remark of his in passing; I could not help it."

Agnes clasped her hands together in frightened supplication.

"You won't say anything about it?" she said, piteously. "Oh, please don't say anything about it! I am so sorry you overheard. Oh, Miss Danton, you won't tell?"

"Certainly not," answered Kate, startled by her emotion. "I merely thought he might be the friend you came in search of."

"Oh, no, no! Doctor Danton has been my friend; I owe him more than I can ever repay. He is the best, and noblest, and most generous of men. He was my friend when I had no friend in the world—when, but for him, I might have died. But he is not the one I came to seek."

"I beg your pardon," said Kate, going back to her chair. "I have asked too many questions."

"No, no! You have a right to ask me, but I cannot tell. I am not very old, but my heart is nearly broken."

She dropped her work, covered her face with her slender hands, and broke out into a fit of passionate crying. Kate was beside her in a moment, soothing her, caressing her, as if she had been her sister.

"I am sorry, I am sorry," she said; "it is all my fault. Don't cry, Agnes; I will go now; you will feel better alone."

She stooped and kissed her. Agnes looked up in grateful surprise, but Miss Danton was gone. She ran down stairs and stood looking out of the drawing-room window, at the sunlit, wintry landscape.

So Doctor Frank was a hero after all, and not a villain. He had nothing to do with this pale little girl's trouble. He was only her best friend and wanted to hide it.

"People generally like their good deeds to be known," mused Miss Danton. "They want their right hand to see all that their left hand gives. Is Doctor Frank a little better than the rest of mankind? I know he attends the sick poor of St. Croix for nothing, and I know he is very pleasant, and a gentleman. Is he that modern wonder, a good man, besides?"

Her meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Rose, looking very charming in a tight jacket and long black riding-skirt, a "jockey hat and feather" on her curly head, and flourishing her riding-whip in her gauntleted hand.

"I thought you were out, Kate, with your little Scotchman," she said, slapping her gaiter. "I saw him mount and ride off nearly an hour ago."

"I have been in my room."

"I wish Doctor Frank would come," said Rose. "I like some one to make love to me when I ride."

"Doctor Frank does not make love to you."

"Does he not? How do you know?"

"My prophetic soul tells me, and what is more, never will. All the better for Doctor Frank, since you would not accept him or his love if he offered them."

"And how do you know that? I must own I thought him a prig at first, and if I begin to find him delightful now, I suppose it is merely by force of contrast with your black-browed, deadly-dull baronet. Will you come? No? Well, then, adieu, and au revoir."

Kate watched her mount and gallop down the avenue, kissing her hand as she disappeared.

"My pretty Rose," she thought, smiling, "she is only a spoiled child; one cannot be angry, let her say what she will."

Out beyond the gates, Rose's canter changed to a rapid gallop. She managed her horse well, and speedily left the village behind, and was flying along a broad, well-beaten country road, interspersed at remote intervals with quaint French farm-houses.

All at once, Regina slipped—there was a sheet of ice across the road—struggled to regain her footing, fell, and would have thrown her rider had not a man, walking leisurely along, sprung forward and caught her in his arms.

Rose was unhurt, and extricating herself from the stranger's coat-sleeves, rose also. The hero of the moment made an attempt to follow her example, uttered a groan, made a wry face, and came to a halt.

"Are you hurt?" Rose asked.

"I have twisted an ankle on that confounded ice—sprained it, I am afraid, in the struggle with the horse. If I can walk—but no, my locomotive powers, I find, are at a standstill for the present. Now, then, Mademoiselle, what are we to do?"

He seated himself with great deliberation on a fallen tree and looked up at her coolly, as he asked the question.

Rose looked down into one of the handsomest faces she had ever seen, albeit pallid just now with sharp pain.

"I am so sorry," she said, in real concern. "You cannot walk, and you must not stay here. What shall we—oh! what shall we do?"

"I tell you," said the young man. "Do you see that old yellow farm-house that looks like a church in Chinese mourning."

"Yes."

"Well—but it will be a great deal of trouble."

"Trouble!" cried Rose. "Don't talk about trouble. Do you want me to go to that farm-house!"

"If you will be so kind. I stopped there last night. Tell old Jacques—that's the proprietor—to send some kind of a trap down here for me—a sled, if nothing else."

"I'll be back in ten minutes," exclaimed Rose, mounting Regina with wonderful celerity, and flying off.

Old Jacques—a wizen little habitant—was distressed at the news, and ran off instantly to harness up his old mare, and sled. Madame Jacques placed a mattress on the sled and the vehicle started.

"Who is the gentleman?" Rose asked carelessly, as they rode along.

Old Jacques didn't know. He had stopped there last night, and paid them, but hadn't told them his name or his business.

A few minutes brought them to the scene of the tragedy. The stranger lifted those dark eyes of his, and looked so unspeakably handsome, that Rose was melted to deeper compassion than ever.

"I am afraid you are nearly frozen to death," she said, springing lightly to the ground. "Let us try if we cannot help you on to the sled."

"You are very kind," replied the stranger, laughing and accepting. "It is worth while having a sprained ankle, after all."

Rose and old Jacques got him on the sled between them though his lips were white with suppressed pain in the effort.

"I sent Jean Baptiste for Dr. Pillule," said old Jacques as he started the mare. "Monsieur will be—what you call it—all right, when Dr. Pillule comes."

"Might I ask—but, perhaps it would be asking too much?" the stranger said, looking at Rose.

"What is it?"

"Will you not return with us, and hear whether Dr. Pillule thinks my life in danger?"

Rose laughed.

"I never heard of any one dying from a sprained ankle. Malgre cela, I will return if you wish it, since you got it in my behalf."

Rose's steed trotted peaceably beside the sled to the farm-house door. All the way, the wounded hero lay looking up at the graceful girl, with the rose-red cheeks and auburn curls, and thinking, perhaps, if he were any judge of pictures, what a pretty picture she made.

Rose assisted in helping him into the drawing room of the establishment—which was a very wretched drawing-room indeed. There was a leather lounge wheeled up before a large fire, and thereon the injured gentleman was laid.

Doctor Pillule had not yet arrived, and old Jacques stood waiting further orders.

"Jacques, fetch a chair. That is right; put it up here, near me. Now you can go. Mademoiselle, do me the favour to be seated."

Rose sat down, very near—dangerously near—the owner of the eyes.

"May I ask the name of the young lady whom I have been fortunate enough to assist."

"My name is Rosina—Rose Danton."

"Danton," repeated the young man slowly. "Danton; I know that name. There is a place called Danton Hall over here—a fine old place, they tell me—owned by one Captain Danton."

"I am Captain Danton's second daughter."

"Then, Miss Danton, I am very happy to make your acquaintance."

He held out his hand, gravely. Rose shook hands, laughing and blushing.

"I am much pleased to make yours, Mr. ——" laughing still, and looking at him.

"Reinecourt," said the gentleman.

"Mr. Reinecourt; only I wish you had not sprained your ankle doing it."

"I don't regret it. But you are under an obligation to me, are you not?"

"Certainly."

"Then I mean to have a return for what you owe me. I want you to come and see me every day until I get well."

Rose blushed vividly.

"Oh, I don't know. You exact too much!"

"Not a whit. I'll never fly to the rescue of another damsel in distress as long as I live, if you don't."

"But every day! Once a week will be enough."

"If you insult me by coming once a week, I'll issue orders not to admit you. Promise, Miss Danton; here comes Doctor Pillule."

"I promise, then. There, I never gave you permission to kiss my hand."

She arose precipitately, and stood looking out of the window, while the Doctor attended to the sprain.

Nearly half an hour passed. The ankle was duly bathed and bandaged, then old Jacques and the Doctor went away, and she came over and looked laughingly down at the invalid, a world of coquettish daring in her dancing eyes.

"Well, M. Reinecourt, when does M. le Medecin say you are going to die?"

"When you think of leaving me, Mademoiselle."

"Then summon your friends at once, for I not only think of it, but am about to do it."

"Oh, not so soon."

"It is half-past two, Monsieur," pulling out her watch; "they will think I am lost at home. I must go!"

"Well, shake hands before you go."

"It seems to me you are very fond of shaking hands, Mr. Reinecourt," said Rose, giving him hers willingly enough, though.

"And you really must leave me?"

"I really must."

"But you will come to-morrow?" still holding her hand.

"Perhaps so—if I have nothing better to do."

"You cannot do anything better than visit the sick, and oh, yes! do me another favour. Fetch me some books to read—to pass the dismal hours of your absence."

"Very well; now let me go."

He released her plump little hand, and Rose drew on her gloves.

"Adieu, Mr. Reinecourt," moving to the door.

"Au revoir, Miss Danton, until to-morrow morning."

Rose rode home in delight. In one instant the world had changed. St. Croix had become a paradise, and the keen air sweet as "Ceylon's spicy breezes." As Alice Carey says, "What to her was our world with its storms and rough weather," with that pallid face, those eyes of darkest splendour, that magnetic voice, haunting her all the way. It was love at sight with Miss Danton the second. What was the girlish fancy she had felt for Jules La Touche—for Dr. Frank—for a dozen others, compared with this.

Joe, the stable-boy, led away Regina, and Rose entered the house. Crossing the hall, she met Eeny going upstairs.

"Well!" said Eeny, "and where have you been all day, pray?"

"Out riding."

"Where?"

"Oh, everywhere! Don't bother!"

"Do you know we have had luncheon?"

"I don't care—I don't want luncheon."

She ran past her sister, and shut herself up in her room. Eeny stared. In all her experience of her sister she had never known her to be indifferent to eating and drinking. For the first time in Rose's life, love had taken away her appetite.

All that afternoon she stayed shut up in her chamber, dreaming as only eighteen, badly in love, does dream. When darkness fell, and the lamps were lit, and the dinner-bell rang, she descended to the dining-room indifferent for the first time whether she was dressed well or ill.

"What does it matter?" she thought, looking in the glass; "he is not here to see me."

Doctor Frank and the Reverend Augustus Clare dropped in after dinner, but Rose hardly deigned to look at them. She reclined gracefully on a sofa, with half shut eyes, listening to Kate playing one of Beethoven's "Songs without Words," and seeing—not the long, lamp-lit drawing-room with all its elegant luxuries, or the friends around her, but the bare best room of the old yellow farm-house, and the man lying lonely and ill before the blazing fire. Doctor Danton sat down beside her and talked to her; but Rose answered at random, and was so absorbed, and silent, and preoccupied, as to puzzle every one. Her father asked her to sing. Rose begged to be excused—she could not sing to-night. Kate looked at her in wonder.

"What is the matter with you, Rose?" she inquired; "are you ill? What is it?"

"Nothing," Rose answered, "only I don't feel like talking."

And not feeling like it, nobody could make her talk. She retired early—to live over again in dreams the events of that day, and to think of the blissful morrow.

An hour after breakfast next morning, Eeny met her going out, dressed for her ride, and with a little velvet reticule stuffed full, slung over her arm.

"What have you got in that bag?" asked Eeny, "your dinner? Are you going to a picnic?"

Rose laughed at the idea of a January picnic, and ran off without answering. An hour's brisk gallop brought her to the farm house, and old Jacques came out, bowing and grinning, to take charge of her horse.

"Monsieur was in the parlour—would Mademoiselle walk right into the parlour? Dr. Pillule had been there and seen to Monsieur's ankle. Monsieur was doing very well, only not able to stand up yet."

Rose found Monsieur half asleep before the fire, and looking as handsome as ever in his slumber. He started up at her entrance, holding out both hands.

"Mon ange! I thought you were never coming. I was falling into despair."

"Falling into despair means falling asleep, I presume. Don't let me disturb your dreams."

"I am in a more blissful dream now than any I could dream asleep. Here is a seat. Oh, don't sit so far off. Are those the books? How can I ever thank you?"

"You never can—so don't try. Here is Tennyson—of course you like Tennyson; here is Shelley—here are two new and charming novels. Do you read novels?"

"I will read everything you fetch me. By-the-by, it is very fatiguing to read lying down; won't you read to me?"

"I can't read. I mean I can't read aloud."

"Let me be the judge of that. Let me see—read 'Maud.'"

Rose began and did her best, and read until she was tired. Mr. Reinecourt watched her all the while as she sat beside him.

And presently they drifted off into delicious talk of poetry and romance; and Rose, pulling out her watch, was horrified to find that it was two o'clock.

"I must go!" she cried, springing up; "what will they think has become of me?"

"But you will come again to-morrow?" pleaded Mr. Reinecourt.

"I don't know—you don't deserve it, keeping me here until this hour. Perhaps I may, though—good-bye."

Rose, saying this, knew in her heart she could not stay away if she tried. Next morning she was there, and the next, and the next, and the next. Then came a week of wild, snowy weather, when the roads were heaped high, going out was an impossibility, and she had to stay at home. Rose chafed desperately under the restraint, and grew so irritable that it was quite a risk to speak to her. All her old high spirits were gone. Her ceaseless flow of talk suddenly checked. She wandered about the house aimlessly, purposelessly, listlessly, sighing wearily, and watching the flying snow and hopeless sky. A week of this weather, and January was at its close before a change for the better came. Rose was falling a prey to green and yellow melancholy, and perplexing the whole household by the unaccountable alteration in her. With the first gleam of fine weather she was off. Her long morning rides were recommenced; smiles and roses returned to her face, and Rose was herself again.

It took that sprained ankle a very long time to get well. Three weeks had passed since that January day when Regina had slipped on the ice, and still Mr. Reinecourt was disabled; at least he was when Rose was there. He had dropped the Miss Danton and taken to calling her Rose, of late; but when she was gone, it was really surprising how well he could walk, and without the aid of a stick. Old Jacques grinned knowingly. The poetry reading and the long, long talks went on every day, and Rose's heart was hopelessly and forever gone. She knew nothing more of Mr. Reinecourt than that he was Mr. Reinecourt; still, she hardly cared to know. She was in love, and an idiot; to-day sufficed for her—to-morrow might take care of itself.

"Rose, cherie," Mr. Reinecourt said to her one day, "you vindicate your sex; you are free from the vice of curiosity. You ask no questions, and, except my name, you know nothing of me."

"Well, Mr. Reinecourt, whose fault is that?"

"Do you want to know?"

Rose looked at him, then away. Somehow of late she had grown strangely shy.

"If you like to tell me."

"My humble little Rose! Yes, I will tell you. I must leave here soon; a sprained ankle won't last forever, do our best."

She looked at him in sudden alarm, her bright bloom fading out. He had taken one of her little hands, and her fingers closed involuntarily over his.

"Going away!" she repeated. "Going away!"

He smiled slightly. His masculine vanity was gratified by the irrepressible confession of her love for him.

"Not from you, my dear little Rose. To-morrow you will know all—where I am going, and who I am."

"Who you are! Are you not Mr. Reinecourt?"

"Certainly!" half laughing. "But that is rather barren information, is it not? Can you wait until to-morrow?"

His smile, the clasp in which he held her hand, reassured her.

"Oh, yes," she said, drawing a long breath, "I can wait!"

That day—Rose remembered it afterward—he stood holding her hands a long time at parting.

"You will go! What a hurry you are always in," he said.

"A hurry!" echoed Rose. "I have been here three hours. I should have gone long ago. Don't detain me; good-bye!"

"Good-bye, my Rose, my dear little nurse! Good-bye until we meet again."



CHAPTER VII.

HON. LIEUTENANT REGINALD STANFORD.

Rose Danton's slumbers were unusually disturbed that night. Mr. Reinecourt haunted her awake, Mr. Reinecourt haunted her asleep. What was the eventful morrow to reveal? Would he tell her he loved her? Would he ask her to be his wife? Did he care for her, or did he mean nothing after all?

No thought of Jules La Touche came to disturb her as she drifted off into delicious memories of the past and ecstatic dreams of the future. No thought of the promise she had given, no remorse at her own falsity, troubled her easy conscience. What did she care for Jules La Touche? What was he beside this splendid Mr. Reinecourt? She thought of him—when she thought of him at all—with angry impatience, and she drew his ring off her finger and flung it across the room.

"What a fool I was," she thought, "ever to dream of marrying that silly boy! Thank heaven I never told any one but Grace."

Rose was feverish with impatience and anticipation when morning came. She sat down to breakfast, tried to eat, and drink, and talk as usual, and failed in all. As soon as the meal was over, unable to wait, she dressed and ordered her horse. Doctor Frank was sauntering up the avenue, smoking a cigar in the cold February sunshine, as she rode off.

"Away so early, Di Vernon, and unescorted? May I—"

"No," said Rose, brusquely, "you may not. Good morning!"

Doctor Frank glanced after her as she galloped out of sight.

"What is it?" he thought. "What has altered her of late? She is not the same girl she was two weeks ago. Has she fallen in love, I wonder? Not likely, I should think; and yet—"

He walked off, revolving the question, to the house, while Rose was rapidly shortening the distance between herself and her beloved. Old Jacques was leaning over the gate as she rode up, and took off his hat with Canadian courtesy to the young lady.

"Is Mr. Reinecourt in, Mr. Jacques?" asked Rose, preparing to dismount.

Jacques lifted his eyebrows in polite surprise.

"Doesn't Mademoiselle know, then?"

"Know what?"

"That Monsieur has gone?"

"Gone?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle, half an hour ago. Gone for good."

"But he will come back?" said Rose, faintly, her heart seeming suddenly to stop beating.

Old Jacques shook his head.

"No, Mam'selle. Monsieur has paid me like a king, shook hands with Margot and me, and gone forever."

There was a dead pause. Rose clutched her bridle-rein, and felt the earth spinning under her, her face growing-white and cold.

"Did he leave no message—no message for me?"

She could barely utter the words, the shock, the consternation were so great. Something like a laugh shone in old Jacques' eyes.

"No, Mademoiselle, he never spoke of you. He only paid us, and said good-bye, and went away."

Rose turned Regina slowly round in a stunned sort of way, and with the reins loose on her neck, let her take her road homeward. A dull sense of despair was all she was conscious of. She could not think, she could not reason, her whole mind was lost in blank consternation. He was gone. She could not get beyond that—he was gone.

The boy who came to lead away her horse stared at her changed face; the servant who opened the door opened his eyes, also, at sight of her. She never heeded them; a feeling that she wanted to be alone was all she could realize, and she walked straight to a little alcove opening from the lower end of the long entrance-hall. An archway and a curtain of amber silk separated it from the drawing-room, of which it was a sort of recess. A sofa, piled high with downy pillows, stood invitingly under a window. Among these pillows poor Rose threw herself, to do battle with her despair.

While she lay there in tearless rage, she heard the drawing-room door open, and some one come in.

"Who shall I say, sir?" insinuated the servant.

"Just say a friend wishes to see Miss Danton," was the answer.

That voice! Rose bounded from the sofa, her eyes wild, her lips apart. Her hand shook as she drew aside the curtain and looked out. A gentleman was there, but he sat with his back to her, and his figure was only partially revealed. Rose's heart beat in great plunges against her side, but she restrained herself and waited. Ten minutes, and there was the rustle of a dress; Kate entered the room. The gentleman arose, there was a cry of "Reginald!" and then Kate was clasped in the stranger's arms. Rose could see his face now; no need to look twice to recognize Mr. Reinecourt.

The curtain dropped from Rose's hand, she stood still, breath coming and going in gasps. She saw it all as by an electric light—Mr. Reinecourt was Kate's betrothed husband, Reginald Stanford. He had known her from the first; from the first he had coolly and systematically deceived her. He knew that she loved him—he must know it—and had gone on fooling her to the top of his bent. Perhaps he and Kate would laugh over it together before the day was done. Rose clenched her hands, and her eyes flashed at the thought. Back came the colour to her cheeks, back the light to her eyes; anger for the moment quenched every spark of love. Some of the old Danton pluck was in her, after all. No despair now, no lying on sofa cushions any more in helpless woe.

"How dared he do it—how dared he?" she thought "knowing me to be Kate's sister. I hate him! oh, I hate him!"

And here Rose broke down, and finding the hysterics would come, fled away to her room, and cried vindictively for two hours.

She got up at last, sullen and composed. Her mind was made up. She would show Mr. Reinecourt (Mr. Reinecourt indeed)! how much she cared for him. He should see the freezing indifference with which she could treat him; he should see she was not to be fooled with impunity.

Rose bathed her flushed and tear-stained face until every trace of the hysterics was gone, called Agnes Darling to curl her hair and dress her in a new blue glace, in which she looked lovely. Then, with a glow like fever on her cheeks, a fire like fever in her eyes, she went down stairs. In the hall she met Eeny.

"Oh, Rose! I was just going up to your room. Kate wants you."

"Does she? What for?"

"Mr. Stanford has come. He is with her in the drawing-room; and, Rose, he is the handsomest man I ever saw."

Rose shook back her curls disdainfully, and descended to the drawing-room. A la princesse she sailed in, and saw the late M. Reinecourt seated by the window, Kate beside him, with, oh, such a happy face! She arose at her sister's entrance, a smile of infinite content on her face.

"Reginald, my sister Rose. Rose, Mr. Stanford."

Rose made the most graceful bow that ever was seen, not the faintest sign of recognition in her face. She hardly glanced at Mr. Stanford—she was afraid to trust herself too far—she was afraid to meet those magnetic dark eyes. If he looked aback at her sang-froid, she did not see it. She swept by as majestically as Kate herself, and took a distant seat.

Kate's face showed her surprise. Rose had been a puzzle to her of late; she was more a puzzle now than ever. Rose was standing on her dignity, that was evident; and Rose did not often stand on that pedestal. She would not talk, or only in monosyllables. Her replies to Mr. Stanford were pointedly cold and brief. She sat, looking very pretty in her blue glace and bright curls, her fingers toying idly with her chatelaine and trinkets, and as unapproachable as a grand duchess.

Mr. Stanford made no attempt to approach her. He sat and talked to his betrothed of the old times and the old friends and places, and seemed to forget there was any one else in the world. Rose listened, with a heart swelling with angry bitterness—silent, except when discreetly addressed by Kate, and longing vindictively to spring up and tell the handsome, treacherous Englishman what she thought of him there and then.

As luncheon hour drew near, her father, who had been absent, returned with Sir Ronald Keith and Doctor Danton. They were all going upstairs; but Kate, with a happy flush on her face, looked out of the drawing-room door.

"Come in papa," she said; "come in, Sir Ronald; there is an old friend here."

She smiled a bright invitation to the young Doctor, who went in also. Reginald Stanford stood up. Captain Danton, with a delighted "Hallo!" grasped both his hands.

"Reginald, my dear boy, I am delighted, more than delighted, to see you. Welcome to Canada, Sir Ronald; this is more than we bargained for."

"I was surprised to find you here, Sir Ronald," said the young officer, shaking the baronet's hand cordially; "very happy to meet you again."

Sir Ronald, with a dark flush on his face, bowed stiffly, in silence, and moved away.

Doctor Frank was introduced, made his bow, and retreated to Rose's sofa.

Capricious womanhood! Rose, that morning, had decidedly snubbed him; Rose, at noon, welcomed him with her most radiant smile. Never, perhaps, in all his experience had any young lady listened to him with such flattering attention, with such absorbed interest. Never had bright eyes and rosy lips given him such glances and smiles. She hung on his words; she had eyes and ears for no one else, least of all for the supremely handsome gentleman who was her sister's betrothed, and who talked to her father; while Sir Ronald glowered over a book.

The ringing of the luncheon-bell brought Grace and Eeny, and all were soon seated around the Captain's hospitable board.

Lieutenant Reginald Stanford laid himself out to be fascinating, and was fascinating. There was a subtle charm in his handsome face, in his brilliant smile and glance, in his pleasant voice, in his wittily-told stories, and inexhaustible fund of anecdote and mimicry. Now he was in Ireland, now in France, now in Scotland, now in Yorkshire; and the bad English and the patois and accent of all were imitated to the life. With that face, that voice, that talent for imitation, Lieutenant Stanford, in another walk of life, might have made his fortune on the stage. His power of fascination was irresistible. Grace felt it, Eeny felt it, all felt it, except Sir Ronald Keith. He sat like the Marble Guest, not fascinated, not charmed, black and unsmiling.

Rose, too—what was the matter with Rose? She, so acutely alive to well-told stories, to handsome faces, so rigidly cold, and stately, and uninterested now. She shrugged her dimpled shoulders when the table was in a roar; she opened her rather small hazel eyes and stared, as if she wondered, what they could see to laugh at. She did not even deign to glance at him, the hero of the feast; and, in fact, so greatly overdid her part as to excite the suspicions of that astute young man, Doctor Danton. There is no effect without a cause. What was the cause of Rose's icy indifference? He looked at her, then at Stanford, then back at her, and set himself to watch.

"She has met him before," thought the shrewd Doctor; "but where, if he has just come from England? I'll ask him, I think."

It was some time before there was a pause in the conversation. In the first, Dr. Frank struck in.

"How did you come, Mr. Stanford?" he asked.

"On the Hysperia, from Southampton to New York."

"How long ago?" inquired Kate, indirectly helping him; "a week?"

"No," said Lieutenant Stanford, coolly carving his cold ham; "nearly five."

Every one stared. Kate looked blankly amazed.

"Impossible!" she exclaimed; "five weeks since you landed in New York? Surely not."

"Quite true, I assure you. The way was this—"

He paused and looked at Rose, who had spilled a glass of wine, trying to lift it, in a hand that shook strangely. Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks scarlet, her whole manner palpably and inexplicably embarrassed.

"Four, weeks ago, I reached Canada. I did not write you, Kate, that I was coming. I wished to give you a surprise. I stopped at Belleplain—you know the town of Belleplain, thirty miles from here—to see a brother officer I had known at Windsor. Travelling from Belleplain in a confounded stage, I stopped half frozen at an old farm-house six miles off. Next morning, pursuing my journey on foot, I met with a little mishap."

He paused provokingly to fill at his leisure a glass of sherry; and Doctor Danton watching Rose under his eyelashes, saw the colour coming and going in her traitor face.

"I slipped on a sheet of ice," continued Mr. Stanford. "I am not used to your horrible Canadian roads, remember, and strained my ankle badly. I had to be conveyed back to the farm-house on a sled—medical attendance procured, and for three weeks I have been a prisoner there. I could have sent you word, no doubt, and put you to no end of trouble bringing me here, but I did not like that; I did not care to turn Danton Hall into a hospital, and go limping through life; so I made the best of a bad bargain and stayed where I was."

There was a general murmur of sympathy from all but Sir Ronald and Rose. Sir Ronald sat like a grim statue in granite; and Rose, still fluttering and tremulous, did not dare to lift her eyes.

"You must have found it very lonely," said Doctor Danton.

"No. I regretted not getting here, of course; but otherwise it was not unpleasant. They took such capital care of me, you see, and I had a select little library at my command; so, on the whole, I have been in much more disagreeable quarters in my lifetime."

Doctor Frank said no more. He had gained his point, and he was satisfied.

"It is quite clear," he thought. "By some hocus-pocus, Miss Rose has made his acquaintance during those three weeks, and helped the slow time to pass. He did not tell her he was her sister's lover, hence the present frigidity. The long morning rides are accounted for now. I wonder"—he looked at pretty Rose—"I wonder if the matter will end here?"

It seemed as if it would. Doctor Danton, coming every day to the Hall, and closely observant always, saw no symptoms of thawing out on Rose's part, and no effort to please on the side of Mr. Stanford. He treated her as he treated Eeny and Grace, courteously, genially, but nothing more. He was all devotion to his beautiful betrothed, and Kate—what words can paint the infinite happiness of her face! All that was wanting to make her beauty perfect was found. She had grown so gentle, so sweet, so patient with all; she was so supremely blessed herself, she could afford to stoop to the weaknesses of less fortunate mortals. That indescribable change, the radiance of her eyes, the buoyancy of her step, the lovely colour that deepened and died, the smiles that came so rapidly now—all told how much she loved Reginald Stanford.

Was it returned, that absorbing devotion? He was very devoted; he was beside her when she sang; he sought her always when he entered the room, he was her escort on all occasions; but—was it returned? It seemed to Doctor Frank, watching quietly, that there was something wanting—something too vague to be described, but lacking. Kate did not miss it herself, and it might be only a fancy. Perhaps it was that she was above and beyond him, with thoughts and feelings in that earnest heart of hers he could never understand. He was very handsome, very brilliant; but underlying the beauty and the brilliancy of the surface there was shallowness, and selfishness, and falsity.

He was walking up and down the tamarack walk, thinking of this and smoking a cigar, one evening, about a week after the arrival of Stanford. The February twilight fell tenderly over snowy ground, dark, stripped trees, and grim old mansion. A mild evening, windless and spring-like, with the full moon rising round and red. His walk commanded a view of the great frozen fish-pond where a lively scene was going on. Kate, Rose, and Eeny, strapped in skates, were floating round and round, attended by the Captain and Lieutenant Stanford.

Rose was the best skater on the pond, and looked charming in her tucked-up dress, crimson petticoat, dainty boots, and coquettish hat and plume. She flitted in a dizzying circle ahead of all the rest, disdaining to join them. Stanford skated very well for an Englishman, and assisted Kate, who was not very proficient in the art. Captain Danton had Eeny by the hand, and the gay laughter of the party made the still air ring. Grace stood on the edge of the pond watching them, and resisting the Captain's entreaties to come on the ice and let him teach her to skate. Her brother joined her, coming up suddenly, with Tiger at his side.

"Not half a bad tableau," the Doctor said, removing his inevitable cigar; "lovely women, brave men, moonlight, and balmy breezes. You don't go in for this sort of thing, ma soeur? No, I suppose not. Our good-looking Englishman skates well, by the way. What do you think of him, Grace?"

"I think with you, that he is a good-looking young Englishman."

"Nothing more?"

"That the eldest Miss Danton is hopelessly and helplessly in love with him, and that it is rather a pity. Rose would suit him better."

"Ah! sagacious as usual, Grace. Who knows but the Hon. Reginald thinks so too. Where is our dark Scotchman to-night?"

"Sir Ronald? Gone to Montreal."

"Is he coming back?"

"I don't know. Very likely. If it were to murder Mr. Stanford he would come back with pleasure."

"He is a little jealous, then?"

"Just a little. There is the Captain calling you. Go."

They went over. Captain Danton whirled round and came to a halt at sight of them.

"Here, Frank," he said; "I'm getting tired of this. Take my skates, and let us see what you are capable of on ice."

Doctor Frank put on the skates, and struck off.

Rose, flashing past, gave him a bright backward glance.

"Catch me, Doctor Danton!" she cried. "Catch me if you can!"

"A fair field and no favour!" exclaimed Stanford, wheeling round. "Come on Danton; I am going to try, too."

Eeny and Kate stood still to watch.

The group on the bank were absorbed in the chase. Doctor Danton was the better skater of the two; but fleet-footed Rose outstripped both.

"Ten to one on the Doctor!" cried the Captain, excited. "Reginald is nowhere!"

"I don't bet," said Grace; "but neither will catch Rose if Rose likes."

Round and round the fish-pond the trio flew—Rose still ahead, the Doctor outstripping the Lieutenant. The chase was getting exciting. There was no chance of gaining on Rose by following her. Danton tried strategy. As she wheeled airily around, he abruptly turned, headed her off, and caught her with a rebound in his arms.

"By Jove!" cried the Captain, delighted, "he has her. Reginald, my boy, you are beaten."

"I told you you stood no chance, Stanford," said the Doctor.

"What am I to have for my pains, Miss Rose?"

"Stoop down and you'll see."

He bent his head. A stinging box on the ear rewarded him, and Rose was off, flying over the glittering ice and out of reach.

"Beaten, Reginald," said Kate, as he drew near. "For shame, sir."

"Beaten, but not defeated," answered her lover; "a Stanford never yields. Rose shall be my prize yet."

Rose had whirled round the pond, and was passing. He looked at her as he spoke; but her answer was a flash of the eye and a curl of the lip as she flew on. Kate saw it, and looked after her, puzzled and thoughtful.

"Reginald," she said, when, the skating over, they were all sauntering back to the house, "what have you done to Rose?"

Reginald Stanford raised his dark eyebrows.

"Done to her! What do you imagine I have done to her?"

"Nothing; but why, then, does she dislike you so?"

"Am I so unfortunate as to have incurred your pretty sister's dislike?"

"Don't you see it? She avoids you. She will not talk to you, or sing for you, or take your arm, or join us when we go out. I never saw her treat any gentleman with such pointed coldness before."

"Extraordinary," said Mr. Stanford, with profoundest gravity; "I am the most unlucky fellow in the world. What shall I do to overcome your fair sister's aversion?"

"Perhaps you do not pay her attention enough. Rose knows she is very pretty, and is jealously exacting in her demands for admiration and devotion. Sir Ronald gave her mortal offence the first evening he came, by his insensibility. She has never forgiven him, and never will. Devote yourself more to her and less to me, and perhaps Rose will consent to let you bask in the light of her smile."

He looked at her with an odd glance. She was smiling, but in earnest too. She loved her sister and her lover so well, that she felt uncomfortable until they were friends; and her heart was too great and faithful for the faintest spark of jealousy. He had lifted the hand that wore his ring to his lips.

"Your wishes are my law. I shall do my best to please Rose from to-night."

That evening, for the first time, Stanford took a seat beside Rose, and did his best to be agreeable. Kate smiled approval from her place at the piano, and Doctor Danton, on the other side of Rose, heard and saw all, and did not quite understand. But Rose was still offended, and declined to relent. It was hard to resist that persuasive voice, but she did. She hardened herself resolutely at the thought of how he had deceived her—he who was soon to be her sister's husband. Rose got up abruptly, excused herself, and left the room.

When the family were dispersing to their chambers that night, Reginald lingered to speak to Kate.

"I have failed, you see," he said.

"Rose is a mystery," said Kate, vexed; "she has quite a new way of acting. But you know," smiling radiantly, "a Stanford never yields."

"True. It is discouraging, but I shall try again. Good-night, dearest and best, and pleasant dreams—of me."

He ascended to his bedroom, lamp in hand. A fire blazed in the grate; and sitting down before it, his coat off, his slippers on, his hands in his pockets, he gazed at it with knitted brow, and whistling softly. For half an hour he sat, still as a statue. Then he got up, found his writing-case, and sat down to indite a letter. He was singing the fag-end of something as he dipped his pen in the ink.

"Bind the sea to slumber stilly— Bind its odour to the lily— Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver— Then bind love to last forever!"

* * * * *

"Danton Hall, February 26, 18—

"My Dear Lauderdale: I think I promised, when I left Windsor, to write to tell you how I got on in this horribly Arctic region. It is nearly two months since I left Windsor, and my conscience (don't laugh—I have discovered that I have a conscience) gives me sundry twinges when I think of you. I don't feel like sleeping to-night. I am full of my subject, so here goes.

"In the first place, Miss Danton is well, and as much of in angel as ever. In the second place, Danton Hall is delightful, and holds more angels than one. In the third place, Ronald Keith is here, and half mad with jealousy. The keenest north wind that has ever blown since I came to Canada is not half so freezing as he. Alas, poor Yorick! He is a fine fellow, too, and fought like a lion in the Russian trenches; but there was Sampson, and David, and Solomon, and Marc Antony—you know what love did to them one and all.

"Kate refused him a year ago, in England—I found it out by accident, not from her, of course; and yet here he is. It is the old story of the moth and the candle, and sometimes I laugh, and sometimes I am sorry for him. He has eight thousand a year, too; and the Keiths are great people in Scotland, I hear. Didn't I always try to impress it on you that it was better to be born handsome than rich? I am not worth fifteen hundred shillings a year, and in June (D. V.) beautiful Kate Danton is to be my wife. Recant your heresy, and believe for the future.

"Angel, No. 2.—I told you there were more than one—has hazel eyes, pink cheeks, auburn curls, and the dearest little ways. She is not beautiful—she is not stately—she does not play and sing the soul out of your body, and yet—and yet——. Lauderdale, you always told me my peerless fiancee was a thousand times too good for me. I never believed you before. I do believe you now. She soars beyond my reach sometimes. I don't pretend to understand her, and—tell it not in Gath—I stand a little in awe of her. I never was on speaking terms with her most gracious majesty, whom Heaven long preserve; but, if I were, I fancy I should feel as I do sometimes talking to Kate. She is perfection, and I am—well, I am not, and she is very fond of me. Would she break her heart, do you think, if she does not become Mrs. Reginald Stanford? June is the time, but there is many a slip. I know what your answer will be—'She will break her heart if she does!' It is a bad business, old boy; but it is fate, or we will say so—and hazel eyes and auburn curls are very, very tempting.

"You used to think a good deal of Captain Danton, if I recollect right. By the way, how old is the Captain? I ask, because there is a housekeeper here, who is a distant cousin, one of the family, very quiet, sensible, lady-like, and six and twenty, who may be Mrs. Captain Danton one day. Mind, I don't say for certain, but I have my suspicions. He couldn't do better. Grace—that's her name—has a brother here, a doctor, very fine fellow, and so cute. I catch him looking at me sometimes in a very peculiar manner, which I think I understand.

"You don't expect me before June, do you? Nevertheless, don't faint if I return to our 'right little, tight little' island before that. Meantime, write and let me know how the world wags with you; and, only I know it is out of your line, I should ask you to offer a prayer for your unfortunate friend

"Reginald Stanford."



CHAPTER VIII.

THE GHOST AGAIN.

Rose Danton stood leaning against the low, old-fashioned chimney piece in her bedroom staring at the fire with a very sulky face. Those who fell in love with pretty Rose should have seen her in her sulky moods, if they wished to be thoroughly disenchanted. Just at present, as she stood looking gloomily into the fire, she was wondering how the Honourable Reginald Stanford would feel on his wedding-day, or if he would feel at all, if they should find her (Rose) robed in white, floating in the fish-pond drowned! The fish-pond was large enough; and Rose moodily recollected reading somewhere that when lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, the only way to hide that folly from every eye, to bring repentance to her lover, to wring his bosom, is to—die!

The clock down stairs struck eleven. Rose could hear them dispersing to their bedrooms. She could hear, and she held her breath to listen, Mr. Stanford, going past her door, whistling a tune of Kate's. Of Kate's, of course! He was happy and could whistle, and she was miserable and couldn't. If she had not wept herself as dry as a wrung sponge, she must have relapsed into hysterics once more; but as she couldn't, with a long-drawn sigh, she resolved to go to bed.

So to bed Rose went, but not to sleep. She tossed from side to side, feverish and impatient; the more she tried to sleep, the more she couldn't. It was quite a new experience for poor Rose, not used to "tears at night instead of slumber." The wintry moonlight was shining brightly in her room through the parted curtains, and that helped her wakefulness, perhaps. As the clock struck twelve, she sprang up in desperation, drew a shawl round her, and, in her night-dress, sat down by the window, to contemplate the heavenly bodies.

Hark! what noise was that?

The house was as still as a vault; all had retired, and were probably asleep. In the dead stillness, Rose heard a door open—the green baize door of Bluebeard's room. Her chamber was very near that green door; there could be no mistaking the sound. Once again she held her breath to listen. In the profound hush, footsteps echoed along the uncarpeted corridor, and passed her door. Was it Ogden on his way upstairs? No! the footsteps paused at the next door—Kate's room; and there was a light rap. Rose, aflame with curiosity, tip-toed to her own door, and applied her ear to the key-hole. Kate's door opened; there was a whispered colloquy; the listener could not catch the words, but the voice that spoke to Kate was not the voice of Ogden. Five minutes—ten—then the door shut, the footsteps went by her door again, and down stairs.

Who was it? Not Ogden, not her father; could it be—could it be Mr. Richards himself.

Rose clasped her hands, and stood bewildered. Her own troubles had so occupied her mind of late that she had almost forgotten Mr. Richards; but now her old curiosity returned in full force.

"If he has gone out," thought Rose, "what is to hinder me from seeing his rooms. I would give the world to see them!"

She stood for a moment irresolute.

Then, impulsively, she seized a dressing-gown, covered her bright head with the shawl, opened her door softly, and peeped out.

All still and deserted. The night-lamp burned dim at the other end of the long, chilly passage, but threw no light where she stood.

The green baize door stood temptingly half open; no creature was to be seen—no sound to be heard. Rose's heart throbbed fast; the mysterious stillness of the night, the ghostly shimmer of the moonlight, the mystery and romance of her adventure, set every pulse tingling, but she did not hesitate. Her slippered feet crossed the hall lightly; she was beside the green door. Then there was another pause—a moment's breathless listening, but the dead stillness of midnight was unbroken. She tip-toed down the short corridor, and looked into the room. The study was quite deserted; a lamp burned on a table strewn with books, papers, and writing materials. Rose glanced wonderingly around at the book-lined walls. Mr. Richards could pass the dull hours if those were all novels, she thought.

The room beyond was unlit, save by the moon shining brightly through the parted curtains. Rose examined it, too; it was Mr. Richard's bedroom, but the bed had not been slept in that night. Everything was orderly and elegant; no evidences of its occupant being an invalid. One rapid, comprehensive glance was all the girl waited to take; then she turned to hurry back to her own room, and found herself face to face with Ogden.

The valet stood in the doorway, looking at her, his countenance wearing its habitual calm and respectful expression. But Rose recoiled, and turned as white as though she had been a ghost.

"It is very late, Miss Rose," said Ogden calmly. "I think you had better not stay here any longer."

Rose clasped her hands supplicatingly.

"Oh, Ogden! Don't tell papa! Pray, don't tell papa!"

"I am very sorry, Miss Rose, but it would be as much as my place is worth. I must!"

He stood aside to let her pass. Rose, with all her flightiness, was too proud to plead with a servant, and walked out in silence.

Not an instant too soon. As she opened her door, some one came upstairs; some one who was tall, and slight; and muffled in a long cloak.

He passed through the baize door, before she had time to see his face, closed it after him, and was gone.

Rose locked her door, afraid of she know not what; and sat down on the bedside to think. Who was this Mr. Richards who passed for an invalid, and who was no invalid? Why was he shut up here, where no one could see him, and why was all this mystery? Rose thought of "Jane Eyre" and Mr. Rochester's wife, but Mr. Richards could not be mad or they never would trust him out alone at night. What, too, would her father say to her to-morrow? She quailed a little at the thought; she had never seen her indulgent father out of temper in her life. He took the most disagreeable contre-temps with imperturbable good-humour, but how would he take this?

"I should not like to offend papa," thought Rose, uneasily. "He is very good to me, and does everything I ask him. I do hope he won't be angry. I almost wish I had not gone!"

There was no sleep for her that night. When morning came, she was almost afraid to go down to breakfast and face her father; but when the bell rang, and she did descend, her father was not there.

Ogden came in with his master's excuses—Captain Danton was very busy, and would breakfast in his study. The news took away Rose's morning appetite; she sat crumbling her roll on her plate, and feeling that Ogden had told him, and that that was the cause of his non-appearance.

As they rose from the table, Ogden entered again, bowed gravely to Rose, and informed her she was wanted in the study.

Kate looked at her sister in surprise, and noticed with wonder her changing face. But Rose, without a word, followed the valet, her heart throbbing faster than it had throbbed last night.

Captain Danton was pacing up and down his study when she entered, with the sternest face she had ever seen him wear. In silence he pointed to a seat, continuing his walk; his daughter sat down, pale, but otherwise dauntless.

"Rose!" he said, stopping before her, "what took you into Mr. Richards' rooms last night?"

"Curiosity, papa," replied Rose, readily, but in secret quaking.

"Do you know you did a very mean act? Do you know you were playing the spy?"

The colour rushed to Rose's face, and her head dropped.

"You knew you were forbidden to enter there; you knew you were prying into what was no affair of yours; you knew you were doing wrong, and would displease me; and yet in the face of all this, you deliberately stole into his room like a spy, like a thief, to discover for yourself. Rose Danton, I am ashamed of you!"

Rose burst out crying. Her father was very angry, and deeply mortified; and Rose really was very fond of her indulgent father.

"Oh, papa! I didn't mean—I never thought—oh, please, papa, forgive me!"

Captain Danton resumed his walk up and down, his anger softened at the sight of her distress.

"Is it the first time this has occurred?" he asked, stopping again; "the truth, Rose, I can forgive anything but a lie."

"Yes, papa."

"You never have been there before?"

"No, never!"

Again he resumed his walk, and again he stopped before her.

"Why did you go last night?"

"I couldn't sleep, papa. I felt worried about something, and I was sitting by the window. I heard Mr. Richards' door open, and some one come out and rap at Kate's room. Kate opened it, and I heard them talking."

Her father interrupted her.

"Did you hear what they said?" he asked sharply.

"No papa—only the sound of their voices. It was not your voice, nor Ogden's; so I concluded it must be Mr. Richards' himself. I heard him go down stairs, and then I peeped out. His door was open, and I—I—"

"Went in!"

"Yes, papa," very humbly.

"Did you see Mr. Richards?"

"I saw some one, tall and slight, come up stairs and go in, but I did not see his face."

"And that is all!"

"Yes, papa."

Once more he began pacing backward and forward, his face very grave, but not so stern. Rose watched him askance, nervous and uncomfortable.

"My daughter," he said at last, "you have done very wrong, and grieved me more than I can say. This is a serious matter—more serious by far than you imagine. You have discovered, probably, that other reasons than illness confine Mr. Richards to his rooms."

"Yes, papa."

"Mr. Richards is not an invalid—at least not now—although he was ill when he came here. But the reasons that keep him a prisoner in this house are so very grave that I dare not confide them to you. This much I will say—his life depends upon it."

"Papa!" Rose cried, startled.

"His life depends upon it," repeated Captain Danton. "Only three in this house know his secret—myself, Ogden, and your sister Kate. Ogden and Kate I can trust implicitly; can I place equal confidence in you?"

"Yes, papa," very faintly.

"Mr. Richards," pursued Captain Danton, with a slight tremor of voice, "is the nearest and dearest friend I have on this earth. It would break my heart, Rose, if an ill befell him. Do you see now why I am so anxious to preserve his secret; why I felt so deeply your rash act of last night?"

"Forgive me, papa!" sobbed Rose. "I am sorry; I didn't know. Oh, please, papa!"

He stooped and kissed her.

"My thoughtless little girl! Heaven knows how freely I forgive you—only promise me your word of honour not to breathe a word of this."

"I promise, papa."

"Thank you, my dear. And now you may go; I have some writing to do. Go and take a ride to cheer you up after all this dismal talk, and get back your roses before luncheon time."

He kissed her again and held the door open for her to pass out. Rose, with a great weight off her mind went down the passage, and met Eeny running upstairs.

"I say, Rose," exclaimed her sister, "don't you want to go to a ball? Well, there are invitations for the Misses Danton in the parlour."

"A ball, Eeny? Where?"

"At the Ponsonbys', next Thursday night. Sir Ronald, Doctor Frank, papa, and Mr. Stanford are all invited."

Rose's delight at the news banished all memory of the unpleasant scene just over. A ball was the summit of Rose's earthly bliss, and a ball at the Ponsonbys' really meant something. In ten minutes her every thought was absorbed in the great question, "What shall I wear?"

"To-day is Wednesday," thought Rose. "Thursday one, Friday two, Saturday three, Monday four, Tuesday five, Wednesday six, Thursday seven. Plenty of time to have my new silk made. I'll go and speak to Agnes at once."

She tripped away to the sewing-room in search of the little seamstress. The door was ajar; she pushed it open, but paused in astonishment at the sight which met her eyes.

The sewing-room was on the ground floor, its one window about five feet from the ground. At this window which was open, sat the seamstress, her work lying idly on her lap, twisting her fingers in a restless, nervous sort of way peculiar to her. Leaning against the window from without, his arm on the sill, stood Doctor Danton, talking as if he had known Agnes Darling all his life.

The noise of Rose's entrance, slight as it was, caught his quick ear. He looked up and met her surprised eyes, coolly composedly.

"Don't let me intrude!" said Rose, entering, when she found herself discovered. "I did not expect to see Doctor Danton here."

"Very likely," replied the imperturbable Doctor; "it is an old habit of mine turning up in unexpected places. Besides, what was I to do? Grace in the kitchen was invisible, Miss Kate had gone riding with Mr. Stanford, Miss Rose was closeted mysteriously with papa. Miss Eeny, practising the 'Battle of Prague,' was not to be disturbed. In my distraction I came here, where Miss Darling has kindly permitted me to remain and study the art of dressmaking."

He made his speech purposely long, that Rose might not see Miss Darling's confused face. But Rose saw it, and believed as much of the gentleman's story as she chose.

"And now that you have discovered it," said Rose, "I dare say we will have you flying on all occasions to this refugium peccatorum. Are you going? Don't let me frighten you away."

"You don't; but I want to smoke a cigar under the tamaracks. You haven't such a thing as a match about you, have you? No matter; I've got one myself."