He strolled away. Rose looked suspiciously at the still confused face of the sewing-girl.

"How do you come to know Doctor Danton?" she asked abruptly.

"I—he—I mean the window was open and he was passing, and he stopped to speak," stammered Agnes, more confusedly still.

"I dare say," said Rose; "but he would not have stopped unless he had known you before, would he?"

"I—saw him once by accident before—I don't know him—"

She stopped and looked piteously at Rose. She was a childish little thing, very nervous, and evidently afraid of any more questions.

"Well," said Rose, curtly; "if you don't choose to tell, of course you needn't. He never was a lover of yours, was he?"

"Oh, no! no! no!"

"Then I don't see anything to get so confused about. What are you working at?"

"Miss Eeny's jacket."

"Then Miss Eeny's jacket must wait, for I want my new silk made for Thursday evening. Come up to my room, and get to work at once."

Agnes rose obediently. Rose led the way, her mind straying back to the scene in the sewing-room her entrance had disturbed.

"Look here, Miss Darling," she broke out; "you must have known Doctor Danton before. Now you needn't deny it. Your very face proves you guilty. Tell the truth, and shame the——. Didn't you know him before you came to Danton Hall?"

They were in Roses room by this time. To the great surprise of that inquisitive young lady, Agnes Darling sank down upon a lounge, covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

"Goodness me!" exclaimed the second Miss Danton, as soon as surprise would let her speak, "what on earth is the matter with you? What are you crying about? What has Doctor Danton done to you?"

"Nothing! nothing!" cried the worried little seamstress. "Oh, nothing! It is not that! I am very foolish and weak; but oh, please don't mind me, and don't ask me about it. I can't help it, and I am very, very unhappy."

"Well," said Rose, after a blank pause; "stop crying. I didn't know you would take it so seriously, or I shouldn't have asked you. Here's the dress, and I want you to take a great deal of pains with it, Agnes. Take my measure."

Rose said no more to the seamstress on a subject so evidently distressing; but that evening she took Doctor Frank himself to task. She was at the piano, which Kate had vacated for a game of chess with Mr. Stanford, and Grace's brother was devotedly turning her music. Rose looked up at him abruptly, her fingers still rattling off a lively mazurka.

"Doctor Danton, what have you been doing to Agnes Darling?"

"I! Doing! I don't understand!"

"Of course you don't. Where was it you knew her?"

"Who says I knew her?"

"I do. There, no fibs; they won't convince me, and you will only be committing sin for nothing. Was it in Montreal?"

"Really, Miss Rose—"

"That will do. She won't tell, she only cries. You won't tell; you only equivocate. I don't care. I'll find out sooner or later."

"Was she crying?"

"I should think so. People like to make mysteries in this house, in my opinion. Where there is secrecy there is something wrong. This morning was not the first time you ever talked to Agnes Darling."

"Perhaps not," replied Doctor Danton, with a very grave face; "but, poor child! what right have I to make known the trials she has undergone? She has been very unfortunate, and I once had the opportunity to befriend her. That is all I know of her, or am at liberty to tell."

There was that in Doctor Frank's face that, despite Rose's assurance, forbade her asking any more questions.

"But I shall never rest till I find out," thought the young lady. "I've got at Mr. Richards' and I'll get at yours as sure as my name is Rose."

The intervening days before the ball, Rose was too much absorbed in her preparations, and anticipations of conquest, to give her mind much to Agnes Darling and her secrets. That great and hidden trouble of her life—her unfortunate love affair, was worrying her too. Mr. Stanford, in pursuance of his promise to Kate, played the agreeable to her sister with a provoking perseverance that was proof against any amount of snubbing, and that nearly drove Rose wild. He would take a seat by her side, always in Kate's presence, and talk to her by the hour, while she could but listen, and rebel inwardly. Never, even while she chafed most, had she loved him better. That power of fascination, that charm of face, of voice, of smile, that had conquered her fickle heart the first time she saw him, enthralled her more and more hopelessly with every passing day. It was very hard to sit there, sullen and silent, and keep her eyes averted, but the Danton pluck stood her in good stead, and the memory of his treachery to her goaded her on.

"It's of no use, Kate," he said to his lady-love; "our pretty Rose will have nothing to say to me. I more than half believe she is in love with that very clever Doctor Frank."

"Dr. Frank? Oh, no; he is not half handsome enough for Rose."

"He is a thoroughly fine fellow, though. Are you quite sure he has not taken Rose captive?"

"Quite. He is very well to flirt with—nothing more. Rose cares nothing for him, but I am not so sure he does not care for her. Rose is very pretty."

"Very," smiled Mr. Stanford, "and knows it. I wonder if she will dance with me the night of the ball?"

The night of the ball came, bright, frosty, and calm. The large, roomy, old-fashioned family carriage held Rose, Eeny, Sir Ronald, and Doctor Danton, while Mr. Stanford drove Kate over in a light cutter. The Ponsonbys, who were a very uplifted sort of people, had not invited Grace; and Captain Danton, at the last moment, announced his intention of staying at home also.

"I am very comfortable where I am," said the Captain, lounging in an arm-chair before the blazing fire; "and the trouble of dressing and going out this cold night is more than the ball is worth. Make my excuses, my dear; tell them I have had a sudden attack of gout, if you like, or anything else that comes uppermost."

"But, papa," expostulated Kate, very much surprised, for the master of Danton Hall was eminently social in his habits, "I should like you to come so much, and the Ponsonbys will be so disappointed."

"They'll survive it, my dear, never fear. I prefer staying at home with Grace and Father Francis, who will drop in by-and-by. There, Kate, my dear, don't waste your breath coaxing. Reginald, take her away."

Mr. Stanford, with the faintest shadow of a knowing smile on his face, took Kate's arm and led her down stairs.

"The brown eyes and serene face of your demure housekeeper have stronger charms for my papa-in-law than anything within the four walls of the Ponsonbys. What would Kate say, I wonder, if I told her?"

As usual, Captain Danton's two daughters were the belles of the room. Kate was queenly as ever, and as far out of the reach of everything masculine, with one exception, as the moon; Rose, in a changeful silk, half dove, half pink, that blushed as she walked, with a wreath of ivy in her glossy hair, turned heads wherever she went. Doctor Frank had the privilege of the first dance. After that she was surrounded by all the most eligible young men in the room. Rose, with a glow on her rounded cheeks, and a brilliancy in her eyes, that excitement had lent, danced and flirted, and laughed, and sang, and watched furtively, all the while, the only man present she cared one iota for. That eminently handsome young officer, Mr. Stanford, after devoting himself, as in duty bound, to his stately fiancee, resigned her, after a while, to an epauletted Colonel from Montreal, and made himself agreeable to Helen Ponsonby, and Emily Howard, and sundry other pretty girls. Rose watched him angry and jealous inwardly, smiling and radiant outwardly. Their fingers touched in the same set, but Rose never deigned him a glance. Her perfumed skirts brushed him as she flew by in the redowa, but she never looked up.

"He shall see how little I care," thought jealous Rose. "I suppose he thinks I am dying for him, but he shall find out how much he is mistaken."

With this thought in her mind, she sat down while her partner went for an ice. It was the first time that night she had been a moment alone. Mr. Stanford, leaning against a pillar idly, took advantage of it, and was beside her before she knew it. Her cheeks turned scarlet, and her heart quickened involuntarily as he sat down beside her.

"I have been ignored so palpably all evening that I am half afraid to come near you," he said; "will it be high treason to ask you to waltz with me!"

Alas for Rose's heroic resolutions! How was she to resist the persuasive voice and smile of this man? How was she to resist the delight of waltzing with him? She bowed in silence, still with averted eyes; and Lieutenant Stanford, smiling slightly, drew her hand within his arm. Her late partner came up with the ice, but Rose had got something better than ice cream, and did not want it. The music of the German waltz filled the long ball-room with harmony; his arm slid round her waist, her hand was clasped in his, the wax floor slipped from under her feet, and Rose floated away into elysium.

The valse d'ecstase was over, and they were in a dim, half-lighted conservatory. Tropical flowers bloomed around them, scenting the warm air; delicious music floated entrancingly in. The cold white wintry moon flooded the outer world with its frosty glory, and Rose felt as if fairyland were no myth, and fairy tales no delusion. They were alone in the conservatory; how they got there she never knew; how she came to be clinging to his arm, forgetful of past, present, and future, she never could understand.

"Rose," said that most musical of voices; "when will you learn to forget and forgive? See, here is a peace-offering!"

He had a white camellia in his button-hole—a flower that half an hour ago had been chief beauty of Kate's bouquet. He took it out now, and twined its long stem in and out of her abundant curls.

"Wear it," he said, "and I shall know I am forgiven. Wear it for my sake, Rose."

There was a rustling behind them of a lady's-dress, and the deep tones of a man's voice talking. Rose started away from his side, the guilty blood rushing to her face at sight of her elder sister on Doctor Danton's arm.

Kate's clear eyes fixed on her sister's flushed, confused face, on the waxen camellia, her gift to her lover, and then turned upon Mr. Stanford. That eminently nonchalant young Englishman was as cool as the frosty winter night.

"I should think you two might have selected some other apartment in the house for a promenade, and not come interrupting here," he said, advancing. "Miss Rose and I were enjoying the first tete-a-tete we have had since my arrival. But as you are here, Kate, and as I believe we are to dance the German together—"

"And you resign Miss Rose to me?" said Doctor Frank.

"There is no alternative. Take good care of her, and adieu."

He led Kate out of the conservatory. Doctor Frank offered his arm to Rose, still hovering guiltily aloof.

"And I believe you promised to initiate me into the mysteries of the German. Well, do you want me?"

This last was to a man-servant who had entered, and looked as if he had something to say.

"Yes, sir—if you are Doctor Danton."

"I am Doctor Danton. What is it?"

"It's a servant from the Hall, sir. Captain Danton's compliments, and would you go there at once?"

Rose gave a little scream, and clutched her companion's arm.

"Oh, Doctor Frank, can papa be sick?"

"No, Miss," said the man, respectfully, "it's not your father; it's the young woman what sews, Thomas says—" hesitating.

"Well," said Doctor Frank, "Thomas says what?"

"Thomas says, sir, she see a ghost!"

"A what?"

"A ghost, sir; that's what Thomas says," replied the man, with a grin; "and she's gone off into fainting-fits, and would you return at once, he says. The sleigh is at the door."

"Tell him I will be there immediately."

He turned to Rose, smiling at her blank face.

"What shall I do with you, Mademoiselle? To whom shall I consign you? I must make my adieus to Mrs. Ponsonby and depart."

Rose grasped his arm, and held it tight, her bewildered eyes fixed on his face.

"Seen a ghost!" she repeated blankly. "That is twice! Doctor Frank, is Danton Hall haunted?"

"Yes; haunted by the spirit of mischief in the shape of Rose Danton, nothing worse."

"But this is the second time. There was old Margery, and now Agnes Darling. There must be something in it!"

"Of course there is—an over-excited imagination. Miss Darling has seen a tall tree covered with snow waving in the moonlight, and has gone into fainting fits. Now, my dear Miss, don't hold me captive any longer; for, trying as it is, I really must leave you."

Rose dropped his arm.

"Yes, go at once. Never mind me; I am going in search of Kate."

It took some time to find Kate. When found, she was dancing with a red-coated officer, and Rose had to wait until the dance was over.

She made her way to her sister's side immediately. Miss Danton turned to her with a brilliant smile, that faded at the first glance.

"How pale you are, Rose! What is it?"

"Am I pale?" said Rose, carelessly; "the heat, I dare-say. Do you know Doctor Frank has gone?"

"Gone! Where?"

"To the Hall. Papa sent for him."

"Papa? Oh, Rose—"

"There! There is no occasion to be alarmed; papa is well enough; it is Agnes Darling."

"Agnes! What is the matter with Agnes?"

"She has seen a ghost!"

Kate stared—so did the young officer.

"What did you say, Rose?" inquired Kate, wonderingly.

"She—has—seen—a—ghost!" slowly repeated Rose; "as old Margery did before her, you know; and, like Margery, has gone off into fits. Papa sent for Doctor Frank, and he departed half an hour ago."

Slowly out of Kate's face every trace of colour faded. She rose abruptly, a frightened look in her blue eyes.

"Rose, I must go home—I must see Agnes. Captain Grierson, will you be kind enough to find Mr. Stanford and send him?"

Captain Grierson hastened on his mission. Rose looked at her with wide open eyes.

"Go home—so early! Why, Kate, what are you thinking of?"

"Of Agnes Darling. You can stay, if you like. Sir Ronald is your escort."

"Thank you. A charming escort he is, too—grimmer than old Time in the primer. No; if you leave, so do I."

Mr. Stanford sauntered up while she was speaking, and Rose drew back.

"What is it, Kate? Grierson says you are going home."

Kate's answer was an explanation. Mr. Reginald Stanford set up an indecorous laugh.

"A ghost! That's capital! Why did you not tell me before that Danton Hall was haunted, Kate?"

"I want to return immediately," was Kate's answer a little coldly. "I must speak to Mr. Ponsonby and find Eeny. Tell Sir Ronald, please, and hold yourself in readiness to attend us."

She swept off with Rose to find their hostess. Mrs. Ponsonby's regrets were unutterable, but Miss Danton was resolute.

"How absurd, you know, Helen," she said, to her daughter, when they were gone; "such nonsense about a sick seamstress."

"I thought Kate Danton was proud," said Miss Helen. "That does not look like it. I am not sorry she has gone, however, half the men in the room were making idiots of themselves about her."

Kate and Reginald Stanford returned as they had come, in the light sleigh; and Sir Ronald, Rose and Eeny, in the carriage. Rose, wrapped in her mantel, shrunk away in a corner, and never opened her lips. She watched gloomily, and so did the baronet, the cutter flying past over glittering snow, and Kate's sweet face, pale as the moonlight itself.

Captain Danton met them in the entrance hall, his florid face less cheery than usual. Kate came forward, her anxious inquiring eyes speaking for her.

"Better, my dear; much better," her father answered. "Doctor Frank works miracles. Grace and he are with her; he has given her an opiate, and I believe she is asleep."

"But what is it, papa?" cried Rose. "Did she see a ghost!"

"A ghost, my dear," said the Captain, chucking her under the chin. "You girls are as silly as geese, and imagine you see anything you like. She isn't able to tell what frightened her, poor little thing! Eunice is the only one who seems to know anything at all about it."

"And what does Eunice say?" asked Kate.

"Why," said Captain Danton, "it seems Eunice and Agnes were to sit up for you two young ladies, who are not able to take off your own clothes yet, and they chose Rose's room so sit in. About two hours ago, Agnes complained of toothache, and said she would go down stairs for some painkiller that was in the sewing-room. Eunice, who was half-asleep, remained where she was; and ten minutes after heard a scream that frightened her out of her wits. We had all retired, but the night-lamp was burning; and rushing out, she found Agnes leaning against the wall, all white and trembling. The moment Eunice spoke to her, 'I saw his ghost!' she said, in a choking whisper, and fell back in a dead faint in Eunice's arms. I found her so when I came out, for Eunice cried lustily for help, and Grace and all the servants were there in two minutes. We did everything for her, but all in vain. She lay like one dead. Then Grace proposed to send for her brother. We sent. He came, and brought the dead to life."

"An extraordinary tale," said Reginald Stanford. "When she came to life, what did she say?"

"Nothing. Doctor Frank gave her an opiate that soothed her and sent her to sleep."

As he spoke, Doctor Frank himself appeared, his calm face as impenetrable as ever.

"How is your patient, Doctor?" asked Kate.

"Much better, Miss Kate. In a day or two we will have her all right, I think. She is a nervous little creature, with an overstrung and highly imaginative temperament. I wonder she has not seen ghosts long ago."

"You are not thinking of leaving us," said Captain Danton. "No, no, I won't hear of it. We can give you a bed and breakfast here equal to anything down at the hotel, and it will save you a journey up to-morrow morning. Is Grace with her yet?"

"Yes, Grace insists on remaining till morning. There is no necessity, though, for she will not awake."

Kate gathered up the folds of her rich ball-dress, and ran up the polished oaken stair, nodding adieu. Not to her own room, however, but to that of the seamstress.

The small chamber was dimly lighted by a lamp turned low. By the bedside sat Grace, wrapped in a shawl; on the pillow lay the white face of Agnes Darling, calm in her slumber, but colourless as the pillow itself.

Kate bent over her, and Grace arose at her entrance. It was such a contrast; the stately, beautiful girl, with jewelled flowers in her hair, her costly robe trailing the carpetless floor, the perfume of her dress and golden hair scenting the room, and the wan little creature, so wasted and pale, lying asleep on the low bed. Her hands grasped the bed-clothes in her slumber, and with every rise and fall of her breast, rose and fell a little locket worn round her neck by a black cord. Kate's fingers touched it lightly.

"Poor soul!" she said; "poor little Agnes! Are you going to stay with her until morning, Grace?"

"Yes, Miss Danton."

"I could not go to my room without seeing her; but now, there is no necessity to linger. Good-morning."

Miss Danton left the room. Grace sat down again, and looked at the locket curiously.

"I should like to open that and see whose picture it contains, and yet—"

She looked a little ashamed, and drew back the hand that touched it. But curiosity—woman's intensest passion—was not to be resisted.

"What harm can it be?" she thought. "She will never know."

She lifted the locket, lightly touched the spring, and it flew open. It contained more than a picture, although there was a picture of a handsome, boyish face that somehow had to Grace a familiar look. A slip of folded paper, a plain gold ring, and a tress of brown, curly hair dropped out. Grace opened the little slip of paper, and read it with an utterly confounded face. It was partly written and partly printed, and was the marriage certificate of Agnes Grant and Henry Darling. It bore date New York, two years before.

Grace dropped the paper astounded. Miss Agnes Darling was a married woman, then, and, childish as she looked, had been so for two years. What were her reasons for denying it, and where was Henry Darling—dead or deserted?

She look at the pictured face again. Very good-looking, but very youthful and irresolute. Whom had she ever seen that looked like that? Some one, surely, for it was as familiar as her own in the glass; but who, or where, or when, was all densest mystery.

There was an uneasy movement of the sleeper. Grace, feeling guilty, put back hastily the tress of hair—his, no doubt—the ring—a wedding-ring, of course—and the marriage certificate. She closed the locket, and laid it back on the fluttering heart. Poor little pale Agnes! that great trouble of woman's life, loving and losing, had come to her then already.

In the cold, gray dawn of the early morning, Grace resigned her office to Babette, the housemaid, and sought her room. Agnes Darling still slept—the merciful sleep Doctor Frank's opiate had given her.



CHAPTER IX.

A GAME FOR TWO TO PLAY AT.

A cold, raw, rainy, dismal morning—the sky black and hopeless of sunshine, the long bleak blasts complaining around the old house, and rattling ghostily the skeleton trees. The rain was more sleet than rain; for it froze as it fell, and clattered noisily against the blurred window-glass. A morning for hot coffee and muffins, and roaring fires and newspapers and easy-chairs, and in which you would not have the heart to turn your enemy's dog from the door.

Doctor Danton stood this wild and wintry February morning at his chamber window, looking out absently at the slanting sleet, not thinking of it—not thinking of the pale blank of wet mist shrouding the distant fields and marshes, and village and river, but of something that made him knit his brows in perplexed, reflection.

"What was it she saw last, night?" he mused. "No spectre of the imagination, and no bona-fide ghost. Old Margery saw something, and now Agnes. I wonder—"

He stopped, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," he said, and Grace entered.

"I did not know you were up," said Grace. "But it is very fortunate as it happens. I have just been to Miss Darling's room, and she is crying out for you in the wildest Manner."

"Ah!" said her brother, rising, "has she been awake long?"

"Nearly an hour, Babette tells me, and all that time she has been frantically calling for you. Her manner is quite frenzied, and I fear—"

"What do you fear?"

"That last night's fright has disordered her reason."

"Heaven forbid! I will go to her at once."

He left the room as he spoke, and ran upstairs to the chamber of the seamstress. The gray morning twilight stole drearily through the closed shutter, and the lamp burned dim and dismal still. Babette sat by the bedside trying to soothe her charge in very bad English, and evidently but with little success. The bed-clothes had been tossed off, the little thin hands closed and unclosed in them—the great dark eyes were wide and wild—the black hair all tossed and disordered on the pillow.

Babette rose precipitately at the Doctor's entrance.

"Here's the Doctor, Mees Darling. May I go now, Monsieur?"

"Yes, you may go; but remain outside, in case I should, want you."

He shut the door on Babette, and took her place by the sick girl's bedside.

Babette lingered in the passage, staring at the stormy morning, and gaping forlornly.

"I hope he won't be long," she thought. "I want to go to bed."

Dr. Frank, however, was long. Eight struck somewhere in the house; that was half an hour, and there was no sign of his coming. Babette shivered under her shawl, and looked more drearily than ever at the lashing sleet.

Nine—another hour, and no sign from the sick-room, yet. Babette rose up in desperation, but just at that moment Grace came upstairs.

"You here, Babette!" she said, surprised. "Who is with Agnes?"

"The Doctor, Mademoiselle! he told me to wait until he came out, and I have waited, and I am too sleepy to wait any longer. May I go, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, go," said Grace, "I will take your place."

Babette departed with alacrity, and Grace sat down by the storm-beaten window. She listened for some sound from the sick-room, but none rewarded her. Nothing was to be heard but the storm, without, and now and then the opening and shutting of some door within.

Another half-hour. Then the door of the seamstress's room opened, and her brother came out. How pale he was—paler and graver than his sister ever remembered seeing him before.

"Well," she said, rising, "how is your patient?"

"Better," he briefly answered, "very much better."

"I thought she was worse, you look so pale."

"Pale, do I? This dismal morning, I suppose. Grace," he said, lowering his tone and looking at her fixedly, "whose ghost did old Margery say she saw?"

"Whose ghost! What a question!"

"Answer it!"

"Don't be so imperative, please. Master Harry's ghost, she said."

"And Master Harry is Captain Danton's son?"

"Was—he is dead now."

"Yes, yes! he was killed in New York, I believe."

"So they say. The family never speak of him. He was the black sheep of the flock, you know. But why do you ask? Was it his ghost Agnes saw?"

"Nonsense! Of course not! What should she know of Captain Danton's son? Some one—one of the servants probably—came up the stairs and frightened her out of her nervous wits. I have been trying to talk a little sense into her foolish head these two hours."

"And have you succeeded?"

"Partly. But don't ask her any questions on the subject; and don't let Miss Danton or any one who may visit her ask any questions. It upsets her, and I won't be answerable for the consequences."

"It is very strange," said Grace, looking at her brother intently, "very strange that old Margery and Agnes Darling should both see an apparition in this house. There must be something in it."

"Of course there is—didn't I tell you so—an overheated imagination. I have known more extraordinary optical illusions than that in my time. How is Margery—better again?"

"No, indeed. She will never get over her scare in this world. She keeps a light in her room all night, and makes one of the maids sleep with her, and won't be alone a moment, night or day."

"Ah!" said Doctor Frank, with professional phlegm. "Of course! She is an old woman, and we could hardly expect anything else. Does she talk much of the ghost?"

"No. The slightest allusion to the subject agitates her for the whole day. No one dare mention ghosts in Margery's presence."

"I hope you will all be equally discreet with Miss Darling. Time will wear away the hallucination, if you women only hold your tongues. I must caution Rose, who has an unfortunate habit of letting out whatever comes uppermost. Ah! here she is!"

"Were you talking of me?" inquired Miss Rose, tripping upstairs, fresh and pretty, in a blue merino morning dress, with soft white trimmings.

"Do I ever talk of any one else?" said Dr. Frank.

"Pooh! How is Agnes Darling?"

"As well as can be expected, after seeing a ghost!"

"Did she see a ghost, though?" asked Rose, opening her hazel eyes.

"Of course she did; and my advice to you, Miss Rose, is to go to bed every night at dark, and to sleep immediately, with your head covered up in the bed-clothes, or you may happen to see one too."

"Thank you for your advice, which I don't want and won't take. Whose ghost did she see?"

"The ghost of Hamlet's father, perhaps—she doesn't know; before she could take a second look it vanished in a cloud of blue flame, and she swooned away!"

"Doctor Danton," said Rose, sharply, "I wish you would talk sense. I'll go and ask Agnes herself about it. I want to get at the bottom of this affair."

"A very laudable desire, which I regret being obliged to frustrate," said Doctor Danton, placing himself between her and the door.

"You!" cried Rose, drawing herself up. "What do you mean, sir?"

"As Miss Agnes Darling's medical attendant, my dear Miss Rose,—deeply as it wounds me to refuse your slightest request—I really must forbid any step of the kind. The consequences might be serious."

"And I am not to see her if I choose?" demanded Rose, her eyes quite flashing.

"Certainly you are to see her, and to fetch her jelly, and chicken, and toast, and tea, if you will; but you are not to speak of the ghost. That blood-curdling subject is absolutely tabooed in the sick-room, unless—"

"Unless what?" inquired Rose, angrily.

"Unless you want to make a maniac of her. I am serious in this; you must not allude in the remotest way to the cause of her illness when you visit her, or you may regret your indiscretion while you live."

He spoke with a gravity that showed that he was in earnest. Rose shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and walked to Agnes' door. Grace followed at a sign from her brother, who ran down stairs.

The sick girl was not asleep—she lay with her eyes wide open, staring vacantly at the white wall. She looked at them, when they entered, with a half-frightened, half-inquiring gaze.

"Are you better, Agnes?" asked Rose, looking down at the colourless face.

"Oh, yes!"

She answered nervously, her fingers twisting in and out of her bed-clothes—her eyes wandering uneasily from one to the other.

"Wouldn't you like something to eat?" inquired Rose, not knowing what else to say.

"Oh, no!"

"You had better have some tea," said Grace decisively. "It will do you good. I will fetch you up some presently. Rose, there is the breakfast bell."

Rose, with a parting nod to Agnes, went off, very much disappointed, and in high dudgeon with Doctor Frank for not letting her cross-examine the seamstress on the subject of the ghost.

"The ghost she saw must have been Mr. Richards returning from his midnight stroll," thought Rose, shrewdly. "My opinion is, he is the only ghost in Danton Hall."

There was very little allusion made to the affair of last night, at the breakfast-table. It seemed to be tacitly understood that the subject was disagreeable; and beyond an inquiry of the Doctor, "How is your patient this morning?" nothing was said. But all felt vaguely there was some mystery. Doctor Frank's theory of optical illusion satisfied no one—there was something at the bottom that they did not understand.

The stormy day grew stormier as it wore on. Rose sat down at the drawing-room piano after breakfast, and tried to while away the forlorn morning with music. Kate was there, trying to work off a bad headache with a complicated piece of embroidery and a conversation with Mr. Reginald Stanford. That gentleman sat on an ottoman at her feet, sorting silks, and beads, and Berlin wool, and Rose was above casting even a glance at them. Captain Danton, Sir Ronald, and the Doctor were playing billiards at the other end of the rambling old house. And upstairs poor Agnes Darling tossed feverishly on her hot pillow, and moaned, and slept fitfully, and murmured a name in her troubled sleep, and Grace watching her, and listening, heard the name "Harry."

Some of the gloom of the wretched day seemed to play on Rose's spirits. She sang all the melancholy songs she knew, in a mournful, minor key, until the conversation of the other two ceased, and they felt as dismal as herself.

"Rose, don't!" Kate cried out in desperation at length. "Your songs are enough to give one the horrors. Here is Reginald with a face as gloomy as the day."

Rose got up in displeased silence, closed the piano, and walked to the door.

"Pray don't!" said Stanford; "don't leave us. Kate and I have nothing more to say to one another, and I have a thousand things to say to you."

"You must defer them, I fear," replied Rose. "Kate will raise your spirits with more enlivening music when I am gone."

"A good idea," said Kate's lover, when the door closed; "come, my dear girl, give us something a little less depressing than that we have just been favoured with."

"How odd," said Kate languidly, "that Rose will not like you. I cannot understand it."

"Neither can I," replied Mr. Stanford; "but since the gods have willed it so, why, there is nothing for it but resignation. Here is 'Through the woods, through the woods, follow and find me.' Sing that."

Kate essayed, but failed. Her headache was worse, and singing an impossibility.

"I am afraid I must lie down," she said. "I am half blind with the pain. You must seek refuge in the billiard-room, Reginald, while I go upstairs."

Mr. Stanford expressed his regrets, kissed her hand—he was very calm and decorous with his stately lady-love—and let her go.

"I wish Rose had stayed," he thought; "poor little girl! how miserable she does look sometimes. I am afraid I have not acted quite right; and I don't know that I am not going to make a scoundrel of myself; but how is a fellow to help it? Kate's too beautiful and too perfect for mortal man; and I am very mortal, indeed, and should feel uncomfortable married to perfection."

He walked to the curtained recess of the drawing-room, where Rose had one morning battled with her despair, and threw himself down among the pillows of the lounge. Those very pillows whereon his handsome head rested had been soaked in Rose's tears, shed for his sweet sake—but how was he to know that? It was such a cozy little nook, so still and dusky, and shut in, that Mr. Stanford, whose troubles did not prey on him very profoundly, closed his dark eyes, and went asleep in five minutes.

And sleeping, Rose found him. Going to her room to read, she remembered she had left her book on the sofa in the recess, and ran down stairs again to get it. Entering the little room from the hall, she beheld Mr. Stanford asleep, his head on his arm, his handsome face as perfect as something carved in marble, in its deep repose.

Rose stood still—any one might have stood and looked, and admired that picture, but not as she admired. Rose was in love with him—hopelessly, you know, therefore the more deeply. All the love that pride had tried, and tried in vain, to crush, rose in desperation stronger than ever within her. If he had not been her sister's betrothed, who could say what might not have been? If that sister was one degree less beautiful and accomplished, who could say what still might be? She had been such a spoiled child all her life, getting whatever she wanted for the asking, that it was very hard she should be refused now the highest boon she had ever craved—Mr. Reginald Stanford.

Did some mesmeric rapport tell him in his sleep she was there? Perhaps so, for without noise, or cause, his eyes opened and fixed on Rose's flushed and troubled face. She started away with a confused exclamation, but Stanford, stretching out his arm, caught and held her fast.

"Don't run away, Rose," he said, "How long have you been here? How long have I been asleep?"

"I don't know," said Rose, confusedly: "I came here for a book a moment ago only. Let me go, Mr. Stanford."

"Let you go? Surely not. Come, sit down here beside me, Rose. I have fifty things to say to you."

"You have nothing to say to me—nothing I wish to hear. Please let me go."

"On your dignity again, Rose?" he said, smiling, and mesmerizing her with his dark eyes; "when will you have done wearing your mask?"

"My mask!" Rose echoed, flushing; "what do you mean, Mr. Stanford?"

"Treating me like this! You don't want to leave me now, do you? You don't hate me as much as you pretend. You act very well, my pretty little Rose; but you don't mean it—you know you don't!"

"Will you let me go, Mr. Stanford?" haughtily.

"No, my dear; certainly not. I don't get the chance of tete-a-tete with you so often that I should resign the priceless privilege at a word. We used to be good friends, Rose; why can't we be good friends again?"

"Used to be!" Rose echoed; and then her voice failed her. All her love and her wounded pride rose in her throat and choked her.

Reginald Stanford drew her closer to him, and tried to see the averted face.

"Won't you forgive me, Rose? I didn't behave well, I know; but I liked you so much. Won't you forgive me?"

A passionate outburst of tears, that would no longer be restrained, answered him.

"Oh! how could you do it? How could you do it? How could you deceive me so?" sobbed Rose.

Stanford drew her closer still.

"Deceive you, my darling! How did I deceive you? Tell me, Rose, and don't cry!"

"You said—you said your name was Reinecourt, and it wasn't; and I didn't know you were Kate's lover, or I never would have—would have—oh! how could you do it?"

"My dear little girl, I told you the truth. My name is Reinecourt."

Rose looked up indignantly.

"Reginald Reinecourt Stanford is my name; and the reason I only gave you a third of it was, as I said before, because I liked you so much. You know, my dear little Rose, if I had told you that day on the ice my name was Reginald Stanford, you would have gone straight to the Hall, told the news, and had me brought here at once. By that proceeding I should have seen very little of you, of course. Don't you see?"

"Ye-e-e-s," very falteringly.

"I looked up that day from the ice," continued Stanford, "and saw such a dear little curly-headed, bright-eyed, rose-cheeked fairy, that—no, I can't tell you how I felt at the sight. I gave you my middle name, and you acted the Good Samaritan to the wounded stranger—came to see me every day, and made that sprained ankle the greatest boon of my life!"

"Mr. Stanford—"

"Call me Reginald."

"I cannot. Let me go! What would Kate say?"

"She will like it. She doesn't understand why you dislike me so much."

He laughed as he said it. The laugh implied so much, that Rose started up, colouring vividly.

"This is wrong! I must go. Don't hold me, Mr. Stanford."

"Reginald, if you please!"

"I have no right to say Reginald."

"Yes, you have a sister's right!"

"Let me go!" said Rose, imperiously. "I ought not to be here."

"I don't see why. It is very pleasant to have you here. You haven't told me yet that you forgive me."

"Of course I forgive you. It's of no consequence. Will you let me go, Mr. Stanford?"

"Don't be in such a hurry. I told you I had fifty things to—"

He stopped short. The drawing-room door had opened, and Captain Danton's voice could be heard talking to his two companions at billiards.

"All deserted," said the Captain; "I thought we should find the girls here. Come in. I dare-say somebody will be along presently."

"Oh, let me go!" cried Rose, in dire alarm. "Papa may come in here. Oh, pray—pray let me go!"

"If I do, will you promise to be good friends with me in the future?"

"Yes, yes! Let me go!"

"And you forget and forgive the past?"

"Yes—yes—yes! Anything, anything."

Stanford, who had no more desire than Rose herself to be caught just then by papa-in-law, released his captive, and Rose flew out into the hall and upstairs faster than she had ever done before.

How the four gentlemen got on alone in the drawing-room she never knew. She kept her room all day, and took uncommon pains with her dinner-toilet. She wore the blue glace, in which she looked so charming, and twisted some jeweled stars in her bright auburn hair. She looked at herself in the glass, her eyes dancing, her cheeks flushed, her rosy lips apart.

"I am pretty," thought Rose. "I like my own looks better than I do Kate's, and every one calls her beautiful. I suppose her eyes are larger, and her nose more perfect, and her forehead higher; but it is too pale and cold. Oh, if Reginald would only love me better than Kate!"

She ran down-stairs as the last bell rang, eager and expectant, but only to be disappointed. Grace was there; Eeny and Kate were there, and Sir Ronald Keith; but where were the rest?

"Where's papa?" said Rose, taking her seat.

"Dining out," replied Kate, who looked pale and ill. "And Reginald and Doctor Danton are with him. It is at Mr. Howard's. They drove off over an hour ago."

Rose's eyes fell and her colour faded. Until the meal was over, she hardly opened her lips; and when it was concluded, she went back immediately to her room. Where was the use of waiting when he would not be there?



CHAPTER X.

THE REVELATION.

Next morning, at breakfast, Captain Danton was back; but Reginald's handsome face, and easy flow of conversation, were missing. George Howard, it appeared, was going on a skating excursion some miles off, that day, and had prevailed on Mr. Stanford to remain and accompany him.

Rose felt about as desolate as if she had been shipwrecked on a desert island. There was a pang of jealousy mingled with the desolation, too. Emily Howard was a sparkling brunette, a coquette, an heiress, and a belle. Was it the skating excursion or Emily's big black eyes that had tempted him to linger? Perhaps Emily would go with them skating, and Rose knew how charming piquant little Miss Howard was on skates.

It was a miserable morning altogether, and Rose tormented herself in true orthodox lover-like style. She roamed about the house aimlessly, pulling out her watch perpetually to look at the hour, and sighing drearily. She wondered at Kate, who sat so placidly playing some song without words, with the Scotch baronet standing by the piano, absorbed.

"What does she know of love?" thought Rose, contemptuously. "She is as cold as a polar iceberg. She ought to marry that knight of the woeful countenance beside her, and be my lady, and live in a castle, and eat and sleep in velvet and rubies. It would just suit her."

Doctor Danton came up in the course of the forenoon, to make a professional call. His patient was better, calmer, less nervous, and able to sit up in a rocking-chair, wrapped in a great shawl. Grace persuaded him to stay to luncheon, and he did, and tried to win Miss Rose out of the dismals, and got incontinently snubbed for his pains.

But there was balm in Gilead for Rose. Just after luncheon a little shell-like sleigh, with prancing ponies and jingling bells, whirled musically up to the door. A pretty, blooming, black-eyed girl was its sole occupant; and Rose, at the drawing-room window, ran out to meet her.

"My darling Emily!" cried Rose, kissing the young lady she had been wishing at Jericho all day, "how glad I am to see you! Come in! You will stay to dinner, won't you?"

"No, dear," said Miss Howard, "I can't. I just came over for you; I am alone, and want you to spend the evening. Don't say no; Mr. Stanford will be home to dinner with George, and he will escort you back."

"You pet!" cried Rose, with another rapturous kiss. "Just wait five minutes while I run up and dress."

Miss Howard was not very long detained. Rose was back, all ready, in half an hour.

"Would your sister come?" inquired Miss Howard, doubtfully, for she was a good deal in awe of that tall majestic sister.

"Who? Kate? Oh, she is out riding with Sir Ronald Keith. Never mind her; we can have a better time by ourselves."

The tiny sleigh dashed off with its fair occupants, and Rose's depressed spirits went up to fever heat. It was the first of March, and March had come in like a lamb—balmy, sunshiny, brilliant. Everybody looked at them admiringly as the fairy sleigh and the two pretty girls flew through the village, and thought, perhaps, what a fine thing it was to be rich, and young, and handsome, and happy, like that.

Miss Howard's home was about half a mile off, and a few minutes brought them to it.

The two girls passed the afternoon agreeably enough at the piano and over new books, but both were longing for evening and the return of the gentlemen. Miss Howard was only sixteen, and couldn't help admiring Mr. Stanford, or wishing she were her brother George, and with him all day.

The March day darkened slowly down. The sun fell low and dropped out of sight behind the bright, frozen river, in a glory of crimson and purple. The hues of the sunset died, the evening star shone steel-blue and bright in the night-sky, and the two girls stood by the window watching when the gentlemen returned. There was just light enough left to see them plainly as they drew near the house, their skates slung over their arms; but Mr. George Howard came in for very little of their regards.

"Handsome fellow!" said Miss Howard, her eyes sparkling.

"Who?" said Rose, carelessly, as if her heart was not beating time to the word. "Reginald?"

"Yes; he is the handsomest man I ever saw."

Rose laughed—a rather forced laugh, though.

"Don't fall in love with my handsome brother-in-law, Em. Kate won't like it."

"They are to be married next June, are they not?" asked Emily, not noticing the insinuation, save by a slight colour, which the twilight hid.

"So they say."

"They will be a splendid-looking pair. George and all the gentlemen say that she is the only really beautiful woman they ever saw."

"Tastes differ," said Rose with a shrug. "I don't think so. She is too pale, and proud, and cold, and too far up in the clouds altogether. She ought to go and be a nun; she would make a splendid lady-abbess."

"She will make a splendid Mrs. Stanford."

"Who?" said Mr. Stanford himself, sauntering in. "You, Miss Howard?"

"No; another lady I know of. What kind of a time had you skating?"

"Capital," replied her brother; "for an Englishman, Stanford knocks everything. Hallo, Rose! who'd have thought it?"

Rose emerged from the shadow of the window curtains, and shook hands carelessly with Master George.

"I drove over for her after you went," said his sister, "come, there's the dinner-bell, and Mr. Stanford looks hungry."

"And is hungry," said Mr. Stanford, giving her his arm. "I shall astonish Mrs. Howard by my performance this evening."

They were not a very large party—Mr. and Mrs. Howard, their son and daughter, Mr. Stanford and Rose—but they were a very merry one. Mr. Stanford had been in India once, three years ago, and told them wonderful stories of tiger hunts, and Hindoo girls, and jungle adventures, and Sepoy warfare, until he carried his audience away from the frozen Canadian land to the burning sun and tropical splendours and perils of far-off India. Then, after dinner, when Mr. Howard, Senior, went to his library to write letters, and Mrs. Howard dozed in an easy-chair by the fire, there was music, and sparkling chit-chat, racy as the bright Moselle at dinner, and games at cards, and fortune-telling by Mr. Howard, Junior; and it was twelve before Rose thought it half-past ten.

"I must go," said Rose, starting up. "I had no idea it was so late. I must go at once."

The two young ladies went upstairs for Miss Danton's wraps. When they descended, the sleigh was waiting, and all went out together. The bright March day had ended in a frosty, starlit, windless night. A tiny moon glittered sparkling overhead, and silvering the snowy ground.

"Oh, what a night!" cried Emily Howard. "You may talk about your blazing India, Mr. Stanford, but I would not give our own dear snow-clad Canada for the wealth of a thousand Indies. Good-night, darling Rose, and pleasant dreams."

Miss Howard kissed her. Mr. Howard came over, and made an attempt to do the same.

"Good-night, darling Rose, and dream of me."

Rose's answer was a slap, and then Reginald was beside her, and they were driving through the luminous dusk of the winter moonlight.

"You may stop at the gate, my good fellow," said Mr. Stanford to the driver; "the night is fine—we will walk the rest of the way—eh, Rose?"

Rose's answer was a smile, and they were at the gates almost immediately. Mr. Stanford drew her hand within his arm, and they sauntered slowly, very slowly, up the dark, tree-shaded avenue.

"How gloomy it is here!" said Rose, clinging to his arm with a delicious little shiver; "and it is midnight, too. How frightened I should be alone!"

"Which means you are not frightened, being with me. Miss Rose, you are delightful!"

"Interpret it as you please. What should you say if the ghost were to start out from these grim black trees and confront us?"

"Say? Nothing. I would quietly faint in your arms. But this is not the ghost's walk. Wasn't it in the tamarack avenue old Margery saw it?"

"Let us go there!"

"It is too late," said Rose.

"No it is not. There is something delightfully novel in promenading with a young lady at the witching hour of midnight, when graveyards yawn, and gibbering ghosts in winding-sheets cut up cantrips before high heaven. Come."

"But Mr. Stanford—"

"Reginald, I tell you. You promised, you know."

"But really Reginald, it is too late. What if we were seen?"

"Nonsense! Who is to see us! And if they do, haven't brothers and sisters a right to walk at midnight as well as noonday if they choose? Besides, we may see the spectre of Danton Hall, and I would give a month's pay for the sight any time."

They entered the tamarack walk as he spoke—bright enough at the entrance, where the starlight streamed in, but in the very blackness of darkness farther down.

"How horribly dismal!" cried Rose, clinging to him more closely than ever. "A murder might be committed here, and no one be the wiser."

"A fit place for a ghostly promenade. Spectre of Danton, appear! Hist! What is that?"

Rose barely suppressed a shriek. He put his hand over her mouth, and drew her silently into the shadow.

As if his mocking words had evoked them, two figures entered the tamarack walk as he spoke.

The starlight showed them plainly—a man and a woman—the woman wrapped in a shawl, leaning on the man's arm, and both walking very slowly, talking earnestly.

"No ghosts those," whispered Reginald Stanford. "Be quiet, Rose; we are in for an adventure."

"I ought to know that woman's figure," said Rose, in the same low tone. "Look! Don't you?"

"By—George! It can't be—Kate!"

"It is Kate; and who is the man, and what does it mean?"

Now Rose, maliciously asking the question, knew in her heart the man was Mr. Richards. She did not comprehend, of course, but she knew it must be all right; for Kate walked with him there under her father's sanction.

Mr. Stanford made no reply; he was staring like one who cannot believe his eyes.

Kate's face shown in profile was plainly visible as they drew nearer. The man's, shrouded by coat-collar and peaked cap, was all hidden, save a well-shaped nose.

"It is Kate," repeated Mr. Stanford, blankly. "And what does it mean?"

"Hush-sh!" whispered Rose; "they will hear you."

She drew him back softly. The two advancing figures were so very near now that their words could be heard. It was Kate's soft voice that was speaking.

"Patience, dear," she was saying; "patience a little longer yet."

"Patience!" cried the man, passionately. "Haven't I been patient? Haven't I waited and waited, eating my heart out in solitude, and loneliness, and misery? But for your love, Kate, your undying love and faith in me—I should long ago have gone mad!"

They passed out of hearing with the last words. Reginald Stanford stood petrified; even Rose was desperately startled by the desperate words.

"Take me away, Reginald," she said trembling. "Oh, let us go before they come back."

Her voice aroused him, and he looked down at her with a face as white as the frozen snow.

"You heard him?" he said. "You heard her? What does it mean?"

"I don't know. I am frightened. Oh, let us go!"

Too late! Kate and her companion had reached the end of the tamarack walk, and were returning. As they drew near, she was speaking; again the two listeners in the darkness heard her words.

"Don't despair," she said earnestly. "Oh, my darling, never despair! Come what will, I shall always love you—always trust you—always—"

They passed out of hearing again—out of the dark into the lighted end of the walk, and did not return.

Reginald and Rose waited for a quarter of an hour, but they had disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared.

"Take me in," reiterated Rose, shivering. "I am nearly frozen."

He turned with her up the walk, never speaking a word, very pale in the light of the stars. No one was visible as they left the walk; all around the house and grounds was hushed and still. The house door was locked, but not bolted. Mr. Stanford opened it with a night-key, and they entered, and went upstairs, still in silence. Rose reached her room first, and paused with her hand on the handle of the door.

"Good-night," she said shyly and wistfully.

"Good-night," he answered, briefly, and was gone.



CHAPTER XI.

ONE MYSTERY CLEARED UP.

The fire burned low in Rose's pretty room, and the lamp was dim on the table. The window-curtains were closed, and the sheets of the little low, white bed turned down, the easy chair was before the hearth, and everything was the picture of comfort. She flung off her wrappings on the carpet, and sat down in the easy chair, and looked into the glowing cinders, lost in perplexed thought.

What would be the result of that night's adventure? Reginald Stanford, good-natured and nonchalant, was yet proud. She had seen his face change in the starlight, as once she had hardly thought it possible that ever-laughing face could change; she had seen it cold and fixed as stone. How would he act towards a lady, plighted to be his wife, and yet who took midnight rambles with another man? Would the engagement be broken off, and would he leave Canada forever in disgust? Or would he, forsaking Kate, turn to Kate's younger sister for love and consolation?

Rose's heart throbbed, and her face grew hot in the solitude of her chamber, at the thought. He would demand an explanation, of course; would it be haughtily refused by that haughty sister, or would the mystery of Mr. Richards be opened for him?

A clock down-stairs struck two. Rose remembered that late watching involved pale cheeks and dull eyes, and got up, said her prayers with sleepy devotion, and went to bed.

The sunlight of another bright March day flooded her room when she awoke from a troubled dream of Mr. Richards. It was only seven o'clock, but she arose, dressed rapidly, and, before eight, opened the dining-room door.

Early as the hour was, the apartment was occupied. Grace sat at one of the windows, braiding elaborately an apron, and Captain Danton stood beside her, looking on. Grace glanced up, her colour heightening at Rose's entrance.

"Good morning, Miss Rose," said her father. "Early to bed and early to rise, eh? When did you take to getting up betimes?"

"Good morning, papa. I didn't feel sleepy, and so thought I would come down."

"What time did you get home last night?"

"I left a little after twelve."

"Did you enjoy yourself, my dear?"

"Yes, papa."

"Reginald was with you?"

"Yes, papa."

"It's all right, I suppose," said her father, pinching her blooming cheek; "but if I were Kate, I wouldn't allow it. Young man are changeable as chameleons, and these pink cheeks are tempting."

The pink cheeks turned guiltily scarlet at the words. Grace, looking up from her work, saw the tell-tale flush; but Captain Danton, going over to the fire to read the morning paper, said nothing.

Rose stood listlessly in her father's place, looking out of the window. The wintry landscape, all glittering in the glorious sunshine, was very bright; but the dreamy, hazel eyes were not looking at it.

"Rose!" said Grace suddenly, "when did you hear from Ottawa?"

Rose turned to her, roused from her dreaming.

"What did you say?"

"When did you hear from Ottawa—from M. Jules La Touche?"

Again the colour deepened in Rose's face, and an angry light shone in her eyes.

"What do you want to know for?"

"Because I want to know. That's reason enough, is it not?" replied Grace, sewing away placidly.

"I don't see that it's any affair of yours, Mistress Grace. Jules La Touche is a nuisance!"

"Oh, is he? He wasn't a month or two ago. Whom have you fallen in love with now, Rose?"

"It's no business of yours," said Rose angrily.

"But if I choose to make it my business, my dear, sweet-tempered Rose, what then? Do tell me the name of the last lucky man? I am dying to know."

"Die, then, for you won't know."

"Suppose I know already."

"What?"

"It's not Mr. Stanford, is it?"

Rose gave a gasp—in the suddenness of the surprise, colouring crimson. Grace saw it all, as she placidly threaded her needle.

"I wouldn't if I were you," she said quietly. "It's of no use, Rose. Kate is handsomer than you are; and it will only be the old comedy of 'Love's Labour Lost' over again."

"Grace Danton, what do you mean?"

"Now, don't get excited, Rose, and don't raise your voice. Your father might hear you, and that would not be pleasant. It is plain enough. Mr. Stanford is very handsome, and very fascinating, and very hard to resist, I dare say; but, still, he must be resisted. Mr. La Touche is a very estimable young man, I have no doubt, and of a highly respectable family; and, very likely, will make you an excellent husband. If I were you, I would ask my papa to let me go on another visit to Ottawa, and remain, say, until the end of May. It would do you good, I am sure."

Rose listened to this harangue, her eyes flashing.

"And if I were you, Miss Grace Danton, I would keep my advice until it was asked. Be so good for the future, as to mind your own business, attend to your housekeeping, and let other people's love affairs alone."

With which Rose sailed stormily off, with very red cheeks, and very bright, angry eyes, and sought refuge in a book.

Grace, perfectly unmoved, quite used to Rose's temper, sewed serenely on, and waited for the rest of the family to appear.

Eeny was the next to enter, then came Sir Ronald Keith, who took a chair opposite Captain Danton, and buried himself in another paper. To him, in Kate's absence, the room was empty.

The breakfast bell was ringing when that young lady appeared, beautiful and bright as the sunny morning, in flowing white cashmere, belted with blue, and her lovely golden hair twisted in a coronet of amber braids round her head. She came over to where Rose sat, sulky and silent, and kissed her.

"Bon jour, ma soeur! How do you feel after last night!"

"Very well," said Rose, not looking at her.

"Reginald came home with you?" smiled Kate, toying with Rose's pretty curls.

"Yes," she said, uneasily.

"I am glad. I am so glad that you and he are friends at last."

Rose fidgeted more uneasily still, and said nothing.

"Why was it you didn't like him?" said Kate, coaxingly. "Tell me, my dear."

"I don't know. I liked him well enough," replied Rose, ungraciously. "He was a stranger to me."

"My darling, he will be your brother."

Rose fixed her eyes sullenly on her book.

"You will come to England with us, won't you, Rose—dear old England—and my pretty sister may be my lady yet?"

The door opened again. Mr. Stanford came in.

Rose glanced up shyly.

His face was unusually grave and pale; but all were taking their places, and in the bustle no one noticed it. He did not look at Kate, who saw, with love's quickness, that something was wrong.

All through breakfast Mr. Stanford was very silent, for him. When he did talk, it was to Captain Danton—seldom to any of the ladies.

Grace watched him, wonderingly; Rose watched him furtively, and Kate's morning appetite was effectually taken away.

The meal ended, the family dispersed.

The Captain went to his study, Sir Ronald mounted and rode off, Grace went away to attend to her housekeeping affairs, Eeny to her studies, and Rose hurried up to her room.

The lovers were left alone. Kate took her embroidery. Mr. Stanford was immersed in the paper Captain Danton had lately laid down. There was a prolonged silence, during which the lady worked, and the gentleman read, as if their lives depended on it.

She lifted her eyes from her embroidery to glance his way, and found him looking at her steadfastly—gravely.

"What is it, Reginald?" she exclaimed, impatiently. "What is the matter with you this morning?"

"I am wondering!" said Stanford, gravely.

"Wondering?"

"Yes; if the old adage about seeing being believing is true."

"I don't understand," said Kate, a little haughtily.

Stanford laid down his paper, came over to where she sat, and took a chair near her.

"Something extraordinary has occurred, Kate, which I cannot comprehend. Shall I tell you what it is?"

"If you please."

"It was last night, then. You know I spent the day and evening with the Howards? It was late—past twelve, when I escorted Rose home; but the night was fine, and tempted me to linger still longer. I turned down the tamarack walk—"

He paused.

Kate's work had dropped in her lap, with a faint cry of dismay.

"I had reached the lower end of the avenue," continued Reginald Stanford, "and was turning, when I saw two persons—a man and a woman—enter. 'Who can they be, and what can they be about here at this hour?' I thought, and I stood still to watch. They came nearer. I saw in the starlight her woman's face. I heard in the stillness her words. She was telling the man how much she loved him, how much she should always love him, and then they were out of sight and hearing. Kate, was that woman you?"

She sat looking at him, her blue eyes dilated, her lips apart, her hands clasped, in a sort of trance of terror.

"Was it you, Kate?" repeated her lover. "Am I to believe my eyes?"

She roused herself to speak by an effort.

"Oh, Reginald!" she cried, "what have you done! Why, why did you go there?"

There was dismay in her tone, consternation in her face, but nothing else. No shame, no guilt, no confusion—nothing but that look of grief and regret.

A conviction that had possessed him all along that it was all right, somehow or other, became stronger than ever now; but his face did not show it—perhaps, unconsciously, in his secret heart he was hoping it would not be all right.

"Perhaps I was unfortunate in going there," he said, coldly; "but I assure you I had very little idea of what I was to see and hear. Having heard, and having seen, I am afraid I must insist on an explanation."

"Which I cannot give you," said Kate, her colour rising, and looking steadfastly in his dark eyes.

"You cannot give me!" said Reginald, haughtily. "Do I understand you rightly, Kate?"

She laid her hand on his, with a gentle, caressing touch, and bent forward. She loved him too deeply and tenderly to bear that cold, proud tone.

"We have never quarrelled yet, Reginald," she said, sweetly. "Let us not quarrel now. I cannot give you the explanation you ask; but papa shall."

He lifted the beautiful hand to his lips, feeling somehow, that he was unworthy to touch the hem of her garment.

"You are an angel, Kate—incapable of doing wrong. I ought to be content without an explanation, knowing you as I do; but—"

"But you must have one, nevertheless. Reginald, I am sorry you saw me last night."

He looked at her, hardly knowing what to say. She was gazing sadly out at the sunny prospect.

"Poor fellow!" she said, half to herself, "poor fellow! Those midnight walks are almost all the comfort he has in this world, and now he will be afraid to venture out any more."

Still Stanford sat silent.

Kate smiled at him and put away her work.

"Wait for me here," she said, rising. "Papa is in his study. I will speak to him."

She left the room. Stanford sat and waited, and felt more uncomfortable than he had ever felt in his life. He was curious, too. What family mystery was about to be revealed to him? What secret was this hidden in Danton Hall?

"I have heard there is a skeleton in every house," he thought; "but I never dreamed there was one hidden away in this romantic old mansion. Perhaps I have seen the ghost of Danton Hall, as well as the rest. How calmly Kate took it!—No sign of guilt or wrong-doing in her face. If I ever turn out a villain, there will be no excuse for my villainy on her part."

Kate was absent nearly half an hour, but it seemed a little century to the impatient waiter. When she entered, there were traces of tears on her face, but her manner was quite calm.

"Papa is waiting for you," she said, "in his study."

He rose up, walked to the door, and stood there, irresolute.

"Where shall I find you when I return?"

"Here."

She said it softly and a little sadly. Stanford crossed to where she stood, and took her in his arms—a very unusual proceeding for him—and kissed her.

"I have perfect confidence in your truth, my dearest," he said. "I am as sure of your goodness and innocence before your father's explanation as I can possibly be after it."

There was a witness to this loving declaration that neither of them bargained for. Rose, getting tired of her own company, had run down-stairs to entertain herself with her music. Stanford had left the door ajar when he returned; and Rose was just in time to see the embrace and hear the tender speech. Just in time, too, to fly before Reginald left the drawing-room and took his way to the study.

Rose played no piano that morning; but, locked in her own room, made the most of what she had heard and seen. Kate had the drawing-room to herself, and sat, with clasped hands, looking out at the bright March morning. The business of the day went on in the house, doors opened and shut, Grace and Eeny came in and went away again, Doctor Frank came up to see Agnes Darling, who was nearly well; and in the study, Reginald Stanford was hearing the story of Miss Danton's midnight stroll.

"You must have heard it sooner or later," Captain Danton said, "between this and next June. As well now as any other time."

Stanford bowed and waited.

"You have not resided in this house for so many weeks without hearing of the invalid upstairs, whom Ogden attends, who never appears in our midst, and about whom all in the house are more or less curious?"

"Mr. Richards?" said Stanford, surprised.

"Yes, Mr. Richards; you have heard of him. It was Mr. Richards whom you saw with Kate last night."

Reginald Stanford dropped the paper-knife he had been drumming with, and stared blankly at Captain Danton.

"Mr. Richards!" he echoed; "Mr. Richards, who is too ill to leave his room!"

"Not now," said Captain Danton, calmly; "he was when he first came here. You know what ailed Macbeth—a sickness that physicians could not cure. That is Mr. Richards' complaint—a mind diseased. Remorse and terror are that unhappy young man's ailments and jailers."

There was a dead pause. Reginald Stanford, still "far wide," gazed at his father-in-law-elect, and waited for something more satisfactory.

"It is not a pleasant story to tell," Captain Danton went on, in a subdued voice; "the story of a young man's folly, and madness, and guilt; but it must be told. The man you saw last night is barely twenty-three years of age, but all the promise of his life is gone; from henceforth he can be nothing more than a hunted outcast, with the stain of murder on his soul."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed his hearer; "and Kate walks with such a man, alone, and at midnight?"

"Yes," said Kate's father, proudly "and will again, please Heaven. Poor boy! poor, unfortunate boy! If Kate and I were to desert him, he would be lost indeed."

"This is all Greek to me," said Stanford, coldly. "If the man be what you say, a murderer, nothing can excuse Miss Danton's conduct."

"Listen, Reginald, my dear boy—almost my son; listen, and you will have nothing but pity for the poor man upstairs, and deeper love for my noble daughter. But, first, have I your word of honour that what I tell you shall remain a secret?"

Reginald bowed.

"Three years ago, this young man, whose name is not Richards," began Captain Danton, "ran away from home, and began life on his own account. He had been a wilful, headstrong, passionate boy always, but yet loving and generous. He fled from his friends, in a miserable hour of passion, and never returned to them any more; for the sick, sinful, broken-down, wretched man who returned was as different from the hot-headed, impetuous, happy boy, as day differs from night.

"He fled from home, and went to New York. He was, as I am, a sailor; he had command of a vessel at the age of nineteen; but he gave up the sea, and earned a livelihood in that city for some months by painting and selling water-colour sketches, at which he was remarkably clever. Gradually his downward course began. The wine-bottle, the gaming-table, were the first milestones on the road to ruin. The gambling-halls became, at length, his continual haunt. One day he was worth thousands; the next, he did not possess a stiver. The excitement grew on him. He became, before the end of the year, a confirmed and notorious gambler.

"One night the crisis in his life came. He was at a Bowery theatre, to see a Christmas pantomime. It was a fairy spectacle, and the stage was crowded with ballet-girls. There was one among them, the loveliest creature, it seemed to him, he had ever seen, with whom, in one mad moment, he fell passionately in love. A friend of his, by name Furniss, laughed at his raptures. 'Don't you know her, Harry?' said he; 'she boards in the same house with you. She is a little grisette, a little shop-girl, only hired to look pretty, standing there, while this fairy pantomime lasts. You have seen her fifty times.'

"Yes, he had seen her repeatedly. He remembered it when his friend spoke, and he had never thought of her until now. The new infatuation took possession of him, body and soul. He made her acquaintance next morning, and found out she was, as his friend had said, a shop-girl. What did he care; if she had been a rag-picker, it would have been all one to this young madman. In a fortnight he proposed; in a month they were married, and the third step on the road to ruin was taken.

"Had she been a good woman—an earnest and faithful wife—she might have made a new man of him, for he loved her with a passionate devotion that was part of his hot-headed nature. But she was bad—as depraved as she was fair—and brought his downward course to a tragical climax frightfully soon.

"Before her marriage, this wretched girl had had a lover—discarded for a more handsome and impetuous wooer. But she had known him longest, and, perhaps, loved him best. At all events, he resumed his visits after marriage, as if nothing had happened. The young husband, full of love and confidence, suspected no wrong. He sanctioned the visits and was on most friendly terms with the discarded suitor. For some months it went on, this underhand and infamous intimacy, and the wronged husband saw nothing. It was Furniss who first opened his eyes to the truth, and a terrible scene ensued. The husband refused passionately to believe a word against the truth and purity of the wife he loved, and called his friend a liar and a slanderer.

"'Very well,' said Furniss, coolly, 'bluster as much as you please, dear boy, and, when you are tired, go home. It is an hour earlier than you generally return. He will hardly have left. If you find your pretty little idol alone, and at her prayers, disbelieve me. If you find Mr. Crosby enjoying a tete-a-tete with her, then come back and apologize for these hard names.'"

"He went off whistling, and the half-maddened husband sprang into a passing stage and rode home. It was past ten, but he was generally at the gambling-table each night until after one, and his wife had usually retired ere his return. He went upstairs softly, taking off his boots, and noiselessly opened the door. There sat his wife, and by her side, talking earnestly, the discarded lover. He caught his last words as he entered:

"'You know how I have loved—you know how I do love, a thousand times better than he! Why should we not fly at once. It is only torture to both to remain longer.'

"They were the last words the unfortunate man ever uttered. The gambler had been drinking—let us hope the liquor and the jealous fury made him for the time mad. There was the flash, the report of a pistol; Crosby, his guilty wife's lover, uttered a wild yell, sprang up in the air, and fell back shot through the heart."

There was another dead pause. Captain Danton's steady voice momentarily failed, and Reginald Stanford sat in horrified silence.

"What came next," continued the Captain, his voice tremulous, "the madman never knew. He has a vague remembrance of his wife's screams filling the room with people; of his finding himself out somewhere under the stars, and his brain and heart on fire. He has a dim remembrance of buying a wig and whiskers and a suit of sailor's clothes next day, and of wandering down among the docks in search of a ship. By one of those mysterious dispensations of Providence that happen every day, the first person he encountered on the dock was myself. I did not know him—how could I in that disguise—but he knew me instantly, and spoke. I recognized his voice, and took him on board my ship, and listened to the story I have just told you. With me he was safe. Detectives were scouring the city for the murderer; but I sailed for England next day, and he was beyond their reach. On the passage he broke down; all the weeks we were crossing the Atlantic he lay wandering and delirious in a raging brain-fever. We all thought, Doctor and all, that he never would reach the other side; but life won the hard victory, and he slowly grew better. Kate returned, as you know, with me. She, too, heard the tragical story, and had nothing but pity and prayer for the tempest-tossed soul.

"When we reached Canada, he was still weak and ill. I brought him here under an assumed name, and he remains shut up in his rooms all day, and only ventures out at night to breathe the fresh air. His mind has never recovered its tone since that brain fever. He has become a monomaniac on one subject, the dread of being discovered, and hanged for murder. Nothing will tempt him from his solitude—nothing can induce him to venture out, except at midnight, when all are asleep. He is the ghost who frightened Margery and Agnes Darling; he is the man you saw with Kate last in the grounds. He clings to her as he clings to no one else. The only comfort left him in this lower world are these nightly walks with her. She is the bravest, the best, the noblest of girls; she leaves her warm room, her bed, for those cold midnight walks with that unhappy and suffering man."

Once again a pause. Reginald Stanford looked at Captain Danton's pale, agitated face.

"You have told me a terrible story," he said. "I can hardly blame this man for what he has done; but what claim has he on you that you should feel for him and screen him as you do? What claim has he on my future wife that she should take these nightly walks with him unknown to me?"

"The strongest claim that man can have," was the answer; "he is my son—he is Kate's only brother!"

"My God! Captain Danton, what are you saying?"

"The truth," Captain Danton answered, in a broken voice. "Heaven help me—Heaven pity him! The wretched man whose story you have heard—who dwells a captive under this roof—is my only son, Henry Danton."

He covered his face with his hands. Reginald Stanford sat confounded.

"I never dreamed of this," he said aghast. "I thought your son was dead!"

"They all think so," said the Captain, without looking up; "but you know the truth. Some day, before long, you shall visit him, when I have prepared him for your coming. You understand all you heard and saw now?"

"My dear sir!" exclaimed Stanford, grasping the elder man's hand; "forgive me! No matter what I saw, I must have been mad to doubt Kate. Your secret is as safe with me as with yourself. I shall leave you now; I must see Kate."

"Yes, poor child! Love her and trust her with your whole heart, Reginald, for she is worthy."

Reginald Stanford went out, still bewildered by all he had heard, and returned to the drawing-room. Kate sat as he had left her, looking dreamily out at the bright sky.

"My dearest," he said bending over her, and touching the white brow: "can you ever forgive me for doubting you? You are the truest, the best, the bravest of women."

She lifted her loving eyes, filled with tears, to the handsome face of her betrothed.

"To those I love I hope I am—and more. Before I grow false or treacherous, I pray Heaven that I may die."



CHAPTER XII.

HARRY DANTON.

A spring-like afternoon. The March sun bright in the Canadian sky, the wind soft and genial, and a silvery mist hanging over the river and marshes. Little floods from the fast-melting snow poured through the grounds; the ice-frozen fish-pond was thawing out under the melting influence of the sunshine, and rubber shoes and tucked-up skirts were indispensable outdoor necessaries.

Rose Danton, rubber-shoes, tucked-up skirts, and all, was trying to kill time this pleasant afternoon, sauntering aimlessly through the wet grounds. Very pretty and coquettish she looked, with that crimson petticoat showing under her dark silk dress; that jockey-hat and feather set jauntily on her sunshiny curls; but her prettiness was only vanity and vexation of spirit to Rose. Where was the good of pink-tinted cheeks, soft hazel eyes, auburn curls, and a trim little foot and ankle, when there was no living thing near to see and admire? What was the use of dressing beautifully and looking charming for a pack of insensible mortals, to whom it was an old story and not worth thinking about? The sunny March day had no reflection in Rose's face; "sulky" is the only word that will tell you how she looked. Poor Rose! It was rather hard to be hopelessly in love, to be getting worse every day, and find it all of no use. It was a little too bad to have everything she wanted for eighteen years, and then be denied the fascinating young officer she had set her whole heart on. For Mr. Stanford was lost again. Just as she thought she had her bird snared for certain—lo! it spread its dazzling wings and soared up to the clouds, and farther out of reach than ever. In plain English, he had gone back to the old love and was off with the new, just when she felt most sure of him.

A whole week had passed since that night in the tamarack walk, that night when he had seemed so tender and lover-like, the matchless deceiver! And he had hardly spoken half a dozen words to her. He was back at the footstool of his first sovereign, he was the most devoted of engaged men; Kate was queen of the hour, Rose was nowhere. It was trying, it was cruel, it was shameful. Rose cried and scolded in the seclusion of her maiden bower, and hated Mr. Stanford, or said she did; and could have seen her beautiful elder sister in her winding-sheet with all the pleasure in life.

So, this sunny afternoon, Rose was wandering listlessly hither and thither, thinking the ice would soon break upon the fish-pond if this weather lasted, and suicide would be the easiest thing in the world. She walked dismally round and round it, and wondered what Mr. Stanford would say, and how he would feel when some day, in the cold, sad twilight, they would carry her, white, and lifeless, and dripping before him, one more unfortunate gone to her death! She could see herself—robed in white, her face whiter than her dress, her pretty auburn curls all wet and streaming around her—carried into the desolate house. She could see Reginald Stanford recoil, turn deadly pale, his whole future happiness blasted at the sight. She pictured him in his horrible remorse giving up Kate, and becoming a wanderer and a broken-hearted man all the rest of his life. There was a dismal delight in these musings; and Rose went round and round the fish-pond, revelling, so to speak, in them.

As her watch pointed to three, one of the stable-helpers came round from the stables leading two horses. She knew them—one was Mr. Stanford's, the other Kate's. A moment later, and Mr. Stanford and Kate appeared on the front steps, "booted and spurred," and ready for their ride. The Englishman helped his lady into the saddle, adjusted her long skirt, and sprang lightly across his own steed. Rose would have given a good deal to be miles away; but the fish-pond must be passed, and she, the "maiden forlorn," must be seen. Kate gayly touched her plumed-hat; Kate's cavalier bent to his saddle-bow, and then they were gone out of sight among the budding trees.

"Heartless, cold-blooded flirt!" thought the second Miss Danton, apostrophizing the handsomest of his sex. "I hope his horse may run away with him and break his neck!"

But Rose did not mean this, and the ready tears were in her eyes the next instant with pity for herself.

"It's too bad of him—it's too bad to treat me so! He knows I love him, he made me think he loved me; and now to go and act like this. I'll never stay here and see him marry Kate! I'd rather die first! I will die or do something! I'll run away and become an actress or a nun—I don't care much which. They're both romantic, and they are what people always do in such cases—at least I have read a great many novels where they did!" mused Miss Danton, still making her circle round the fish-pond.

Grace, calling from one of the windows to a servant passing below, caused her to look towards the house, just in time to see something white flutter from an open bedroom window on the breeze. The bedroom regions ran all around the third story of Danton Hall—six in each range. Mr. Stanford's chamber was in the front of the house, and it was from Mr. Stanford's room the white object had fluttered. Rose watched it as it alighted on a little unmelted snowbank, and, hurrying over, picked it up. It was part of a letter—a sheet of note-paper torn in half, and both sides closely written. It was in Reginald Stanford's hand and without more ado (you will be shocked to hear it, though) Miss Rose deliberately commenced reading it. It began abruptly with part of an unfinished sentence.

—"That you call me a villain! Perhaps I shall not be a villain, after all. The angel with the auburn ringlets is as much an angel as ever; but, Lauderdale, upon my soul, I don't want to do anything wrong, if I can help it. If it is kismit, as the Turks say, my fate, what can I do? What will be, will be; if auburn ringlets and yellow-brown eyes are my destiny, what am I—the descendant of many Stanfords—that I should resist? Nevertheless, if destiny minds its own business and lets me alone, I'll come up to the mark like a man. Kate is glorious; I always knew it, but never so much as now. Something has happened recently—no matter what—that has elevated her higher than ever in my estimation. There is something grand about the girl—something too great and noble in that high-strung nature of hers, for such a reprobate as I! This is entre nous, though; if I tell you I am a reprobate, it is in confidence. I am a lucky fellow, am I not, to have two of earth's angels to choose from? And yet sometimes I wish I were not so lucky; I don't want to misbehave—I don't want to break anybody's heart; but still—"

It came to an end as abruptly as it had begun. Rose's cheeks were scarlet flame before she concluded. She understood it all. He was bound to her sister; he was trying to be true, but he loved her! Had he not owned it—might she not still hope? She clasped her hands in sudden, ecstatic rapture.

"He loves me best," she thought; "and the one he loves best will be the one he will choose."

She folded up the precious document, and hid it in her pocket. She looked up at the window, but no more sheets of the unfinished letter fluttered out.

"Careless fellow!" she thought, "to leave such tell-tale letters loose. If Kate had found it, or Grace, or Eeny! They could not help understanding it. I wish I dared tell him; but I can't."

She turned and went into the house. No more dreary rambles round the fish-pond. Rose was happy again.

Suicide was indefinitely postponed, and Kate might become the nun, not she. Kate was his promised wife; but there is many a slip; and the second Miss Danton ran up to her room, singing, "New hope may bloom."

If Rose's heart had been broken, she would have dressed herself carefully all the same. There was to be a dinner-party at the house that evening, and among the guests a viscount recently come over to shoot moose. The viscount was forty, but unmarried, with a long rent-roll, and longer pedigree; and who knew what effect sparkling hazel eyes and gold-bronzed hair, and honeyed smiles, might have upon him? So Eunice was called in, and the auburn tresses freshly curled, and a sweeping robe of silvery silk, trimmed with rich lace, donned. The lovely bare neck and arms were adorned with pale pearls, and the falling curls were jauntily looped back with clusters of pearl beads.

"You do look lovely, Miss!" cried Eunice, in irrepressible admiration. "I never saw you look so 'andsome before. The dress is the becomingest dress you've got, and you look splendid, you do!"

Rose flashed a triumphant glance at her own face in the mirror.

"Do I, Eunice? Do I look almost as handsome as Kate?"

"You are 'andsomer sometimes, Miss Rose, to my taste. If Miss Kate 'ad red cheeks, now; but she's as w'ite sometimes as marble."

"So she is; but some people admire that style. I suppose Mr. Stanford does—eh, Eunice?"

"I dare say he does, Miss."

"Do you think Mr. Stanford handsome, Eunice?" carelessly.

"Very 'andsome, Miss, and so pleasant. Not 'igh and 'aughty, like some young gentlemen I've seen. Heverybody likes 'im."

"What is Kate going to wear this evening?" said Rose, her heart fluttering at the praise.

"The black lace, miss, and her pearls. She looks best in blue, but she will wear black."

"How is Agnes Darling getting on?" asked Rose, jumping to another topic. "I haven't seen her for two days."

"Getting better, Miss; she is hable to be up halmost hall the time; but she's failed away to a shadow. Is there hanythink more, Miss?"

"Nothing more, thank you. You may go."

Eunice departed; and Rose, sinking into a rocker, beguiled the time until dinner with a book. She heard Mr. Stanford and Kate coming upstairs together, laughing at something, and go to their rooms to dress.

"I wonder if he will miss part of his letter," she thought, nervously. "What would he say if I gave it to him, and told him I had read it? No! I dare not do that. I will say nothing about it, and let him fidget as much as he likes over the loss."

Rose descended to the drawing-room as the last bell rang, and found herself bowing to half a dozen strangers—Colonel Lord Ellerton among the rest. Lord Ellerton, who was very like Lord Dundreary every way you took him, gave his arm to Kate, and Stanford, with a smile and an indescribable glance, took possession of Rose.

"Has your fairy godmother been dressing you, Rose? I never saw you look so bewildering. What is it?"

Rose shook back her curls saucily, though tingling to her finger-ends at the praise.

"My fairy godmother's goddaughter would not bewilder you much, if Cleopatra yonder were not taken possession of by that ill-looking peer of the realm. I am well enough as a dernier resort."

"How much of that speech do you mean? Are you looking beautiful to captivate the viscount?"

"I am looking beautiful because I can't help it, and I never stoop to captivate any one, Mr. Stanford—not even a viscount. By-the-by, you haven't quarrelled with Kate, have you?"

"Certainly not. Why should I?"

"Of course—why should you! She has a perfect right to walk in the grounds at midnight with any gentleman she chooses."

She said it rather bitterly. Stanford smiled provokingly.

"Chacun a son gout, you know. If Kate likes midnight rambles, she must have a cavalier, of course. When she is Mrs. Stanford I shall endeavour to break her of that habit."

"Did you tell her I was with you?" demanded Rose, her eyes flashing.

"My dear Rose, I never tell tales. By-the-way, when shall we have another moonlight stroll? It seems to me I see very little of you lately."

"We will have no more midnight strolls, Mr. Stanford," said Rose, sharply; "and you see quite as much of me as I wish you to see. My lord—I beg your pardon—were you addressing me?"

She turned from Stanford, sitting beside her and talking under the cover of the clatter of spoons and knives, and flashed the light of her most dazzling smile upon Lord Ellerton, sitting opposite. Yes, the peer was addressing her—some question he wanted to know concerning the native Canadians, and which Kate was incapable of answering.

Rose knew all about it, and took his lordship in tow immediately. All the witcheries known to pretty little flirts were brought to bear on the viscount, as once before they had been brought to bear on Sir Ronald Keith.

Kate smiled across at Reginald, and surrendered the peer at once. King or Kaiser were less than nothing to her in comparison with that handsome idol on the other side of the table.

Dinner was over, and the ladies gone. In the drawing-room Kate seated herself at the piano, to sing a bewildering duet with Rose. Before it was ended the gentlemen appeared, and once more Lord Ellerton found himself taken captive and seated beside Rose—how, he hardly knew. How that tongue of hers ran! And all the time Lord Ellerton's eyes were wandering to Kate. Like Sir Ronald, pretty Rose's witcheries fell short of the mark; the stately loveliness of Kate eclipsed her, as the sun eclipses stars. When at last he could, without discourtesy, get away, he arose, bowed to the young lady, and, crossing the long, drawing-room, took his stand by the piano, where Kate still sat and sung. Stanford was leaning against the instrument, but he resigned his place to the viscount, and an instant later was beside Rose.

"Exchange is no robbery," he said. "Is it any harm to ask how you have succeeded?"

Rose looked up angrily into the laughing dark eyes.

"I don't know what you mean."

"My dear little artless Rose! Shall I put it plainer? When are you to be Lady Ellerton?"

"Mr. Stanford—"

"My dear Rose, don't be cross. He is too old and too ugly—low be it spoken—for the prettiest girl in Canada!"

"Meaning me?"

"Meaning you."

"Why don't you except Kate?"

"Because I think you are prettier than Kate?"

"You don't! I know better! I don't believe you!"

"Disbelieve me, then."

"You think there is no one in the world like Kate."

"Do I? Who told you?"

"I don't need to be told; actions speak louder than words."

"And what have my actions said?"

"That you adore the ground she walks on, and hold her a little lower than the angels."

"So I do. That is, I don't precisely adore the ground she walks on—I am not quite so far gone as that yet—but I hold her a little lower than the angels, certainly."

"That's enough then. Why don't you stay with her, and not come here annoying me?"

"Oh, I annoy you, do I? You don't mean it, Rose?"

"Yes, I do," said Rose, compressing her lips. "What do you come for?"

"Because—you won't be offended, will you?"

"No."

"Because I am very fond of you, then."

"Fond of me!" said Rose, her heart thrilling—"and you engaged to Kate! How dare you tell me so, Mr. Stanford?"

Rose's words were all they should have been, but Rose's tone was anything but severe. Stanford took an easier position on the sofa.

"Because I like to tell the truth. Never mind the viscount, Rose; you don't care about him, and if you only wait, and are a good girl, somebody you do care about may propose to you one of these days. Here, Doctor, there is room for another on our sofa."

"Will I be de trop?" asked Doctor Frank, halting.

"Not at all. Rose and I are discussing politics. She thinks Canada should be annexed to the United States, and I don't. What are your views on the matter?"

Doctor Danton took the vacant seat and Stanford's conversational cue, and began discussing politics, until Rose got up in disgust, and left.

"I thought that would be the end of it," said Stanford. "Poor little girl! the subject is too heavy for her."

"Only I knew you were done for, Mr. Stanford," said Doctor Danton, "I should have fancied I was interrupting a flirtation."

"Not at all. Rose and I did not get on very well at first. I am afraid she took a dislike to me, and I am merely trying to bring her to a more Christian frame of mind. A fellow likes to be on good terms with his sister."

"So he does. I noticed you and our charming Miss Rose were at daggers-drawn even before you got properly introduced; and I couldn't account for it in any other way than by supposing you had made love to her and deserted her—in some other planet, perhaps."

Stanford looked with eyes of laughing wonder in the face of the imperturbable Doctor, who never moved a muscle.

"Upon my life, Danton," he exclaimed letting his hand fall lightly on the Doctor's shoulder, "you ought to be burned for a wizard! What other planet do you suppose it was?"

"Has that sprained ankle of yours got quite strong again?" somewhat irrelevantly inquired the physician.

Reginald Stanford laughed.

"Most astute of men! Who has been telling you tales?"

"My own natural sagacity. How many weeks were you laid up?"

"Three," still laughing.

"I was here at the time, and I recollect the sudden passion Rose was seized with for long rides every day. I couldn't imagine what was the cause. I think I can, now."