"Doctor Danton, your penetration does you credit. She's a dear little girl, and the best of nurses."

"And do you know—But perhaps you will be offended."

"Not I. Out with it."

"Well, then, I think it is a pity you were engaged before you sprained that ankle."

"Do you, really? Might I ask why?"

"I think Rose would make such a charming Mrs. Stanford."

"So do I," said Mr. Stanford, with perfect composure. "But won't Kate?"

"Miss Danton is superb; she ought to marry an emperor; but no, destiny has put her foot in it. Captain Danton's second daughter should be the one."

"You really think so?"

"I really do."

"How unfortunate!" said Stanford, stroking his mustache. "Do you think it can be remedied?"

"I think so."

"By jilting—it's an ugly word, too—by jilting Kate?"

"Precisely."

"But she will break her heart."

"No, she won't. I am a physician, and I know. Hearts never break, except in women's novels. They're the toughest part of the human anatomy."

"What a consolating thought! And you really advise me to throw over Kate, and take to my bosom the fair, the fascinating Rose?"

"You couldn't do better."

"Wouldn't there be the deuce to pay if I did, though, with that fire-eating father of hers? I should have my brains blown out before the honey-moon was ended."

"I don't see why, so that you marry one of his daughters, how can it matter to him which? With a viscount and a baronet at the feet of the peerless Kate, he ought to be glad to be rid of you."

"It seems to me, Doctor Danton, you talk uncommonly plain English."

"Is it too plain? I'll stop if you say so."

"Oh, no. Pray continue. It does me good. And, besides, I don't know but that I agree with you."

"I thought you did. I have thought so for some time."

"Were you jealous, Doctor? You used to be rather attentive to Rose, if I remember rightly."

"Fearfully jealous; but where is the use? She gave me my coup de conge long ago. That I am still alive, and talking to you is the most convincing proof I can give that hearts do not break."

"After all," said Stanford, "I don't believe you ever were very far gone with Rose. My stately fiancee suits you better. If I take you at your word, and she rejects the baronet and the viscount, you might try your luck."

"It would be worse than useless. I might as well love some bright, particular star, and hope to win it, as Miss Danton. Ah! here she comes!"

Leaning on the arm of Lord Ellerton, Miss Danton came up smilingly.

"Are you two plotting treason, that you sit there with such solemn faces all the evening?" she asked.

"You have guessed it," replied her lover; "it is treason. Doctor, I'll think of what you have been saying."

He arose. Lord Ellerton resigned his fair companion to her rightful owner, and returned to Rose, who was looking over a book of beauty; and Doctor Danton went over to Eeny, who was singing to herself at the piano, and listened, with an odd little smile, to her song:

"Smile again, my dearest love, Weep not that I leave you; I have chosen now to rove— Bear it, though it grieve you. See! the sun, and moon, and stars, Gleam the wide world over, Whether near, or whether far, On your loving rover.

"And the sea has ebb and flow, Wind and cloud deceive us; Summer heat and winter snow Seek us but to leave us. Thus the world grows old and new— Why should you be stronger? Long have I been true to you, Now I'm true no longer.

"As no longer yearns my heart, Or your smiles enslave me, Let me thank you ere we part, For the love you gave me. See the May flowers wet with dew Ere their bloom is over— Should I not return to you, Seek another lover."

Doctor Danton laughed.

"'Long have I been true to you, Now I'm true no longer!'"

"Those are most atrocious sentiments you are singing—do you not know it, Miss Eeny?"

Mr. Stanford beside Kate, Lord Ellerton listening politely to Rose, and Doctor Frank with Eeny, never found time flying, and were surprised to discover it was almost midnight. The guests departed, "the lights were fled, the garlands dead, and the banquet-hall deserted" by everybody but Reginald Stanford and Captain Danton. They were alone in the long, dimly-lighted drawing-room.

"You will take Kate's place to night," the Captain was saying, "and be Harry's companion in his constitutional. I told him that another knew his secret. I related all the circumstances."

"How did he take it? Was he annoyed?"

"No; he was a little startled at first, but he allowed I could not do otherwise. Poor fellow! He is anxious to see you now. If you will get your overcoat, you will find him here when you return."

Mr. Stanford ran upstairs in a hurry, and returned in fur cap and overcoat in ten minutes. A young man, tall and slender, but pale to ghastliness, with haggard cheeks and hollow eyes, stood, wrapped in a long cloak, beside the Captain. He had been handsome, you could see, even through that bloodless pallor, and there was a look in his great blue eyes that startlingly reminded you of Kate.

"You two know each other already," said the Captain. "I claim you both as sons."

Reginald grasped Harry Danton's extended hand, and shook it heartily.

"Being brothers, I trust we shall soon be better acquainted," he said. "I am to supply Kate's place to-night in the tamarack walk. I trust no loiterers will see us."

"I trust not," said Harry, with an apprehensive shiver. "I have been seen by so many, and have frightened so many that I begin to dread leaving my room night or day."

"There is nothing to dread, I fancy," said Stanford, cheerfully, as they passed out, and down the steps. "They take you for a ghost, you know. Let them keep on thinking so, and you are all right. You have given Danton Hall all it wanted to make it perfect—it is a haunted house."

"It is haunted," said his companion, gloomily. "What am I better than any other evil spirit? Oh, Heaven!" he cried, passionately, "the horror of the life I lead! Shut up in the prison I dare not leave, haunted night and day by the vision of that murdered man, every hope and blessing that life holds gone forever! I feel sometimes as though I were going mad!"

He lifted his cap and let the chill night wind cool his burning forehead. There was a long, blank pause. When Reginald Stanford spoke, his voice was low and subdued.

"Are you quite certain the man you shot was shot dead? You hardly waited to see, of course; and how are you to tell positively the wound was fatal?"

"I wish to Heaven there could be any doubt of it!" groaned the young man. "My aim is unerring; I saw him fall, shot through the heart."

His voice died away in a hoarse whisper. Again there was a pause.

"Your provocation was great," said Reginald. "If anything can extenuate killing a fellow-creature, it is that. Are you quite positive—But perhaps I have no right to speak on this matter."

"Speak, speak!" broke out Harry Danton. "I am shut up in these horrible rooms from week's end to week's end, until it is the only thing that keeps me from going mad—talking of what I have done. What were you going to say?"

"I wanted to ask you if you were quite certain—beyond the shadow of doubt—of your wife's guilt? We sometimes make terrible mistakes in these matters."

"There was no mistake," replied his companion, with a sudden look of anguish, "there could be none. I saw and heard as plainly as I see and hear you now. There could be no mistake."

"Do you know where your—where she is now?"

"No!" with that look of anguish still. "No, I have never heard of her since that dreadful night. She may be dead, or worse than dead, long ere this."

"You loved her very much," said Reginald, impelled to say it by the expression of that ghastly face.

"Loved her?" he repeated. "I have no words to tell you how I loved her. I thought her all that was pure, and innocent, and beautiful, and womanly, and she—oh, fool, that I was to believe her as I did!—to think, as she made me think, that I had her whole heart!"

"Would you like to have some one try and trace her out for you? Her fate may be ascertained yet. I will go to New York, if you wish, and do my best."

"No, no," was the reply. "What use would it be? If you discovered her to-morrow, what would it avail? Better let her fate remain forever unknown than find my worst fears realized. False, wicked, degraded, as I know her, I cannot forget how madly I loved her—I cannot forget that I love her yet."

They walked up and down the tamarack-walk in the frosty starlight, all still and peaceful around them—the sky, sown with silver stars, so serene—the earth, white with its snowy garb, all hushed and tranquil—nothing disturbed but the heart of man, all things at peace but his storm-tossed soul.

"I am keeping you here," said Harry, "and it is growing late, and cold. I am selfish and exacting in my misery, as, I fear, poor Kate knows. Let us go in."

They walked to the house. When they entered, Reginald secured the door, and the two young men went upstairs together. Ogden sat sleepily on a chair, and started up at sight of them. Harry Danton held out his hand, with a faint sad smile.

"Good night," he said; "I am glad to have added another to the list of my friends. I hope we shall meet soon again. Good night, and pleasant dreams."

"We shall meet as often as you wish," answered Reginald. "You have my deepest sympathy. Good night."

The white, despairing face haunted Reginald Stanford's dreams all night, as if he had indeed been a ghost. He was glad when morning came, and he could escape the spectres of dream-land in the business of everyday life. He stopped in the hall on his way down stairs, to look out at the morning, wet, and cold, and dark, and miserable. As he stood, some one passed him, going up to the upper bedroom regions of the servants—a small, pallid little creature, looking like a stray spirit in its black dress—Agnes Darling.

"Another ghost?" thought Mr. Stanford, running down stairs. "They are not far wrong who call Danton Hall a haunted house."



CHAPTER XIII.

LOVE-MAKING.

A dismal March afternoon, an earth hard as iron, with black frost, a wild wind troubling the gaunt trees, and howling mournfully around the old house. A desolate, wintry afternoon, threatening storm; but despite its ominous aspect, the young people at Danton Hall had gone off for a long sleigh-ride. Reginald and Kate had the little shell-shaped cutter, Rose, Eeny, Mr. Howard, Junior, Miss Howard, and Doctor Frank, in the big three-seated family sleigh. Amid the jingling of silvery bells, peals of girlish laughter, and a chorus of good-byes to the Captain and Grace, standing on the stone stoop, they had departed.

Captain Danton and his housekeeper spent the bleak March afternoon very comfortably together. The fire burned brightly, the parlour was like waxwork in its perfect order; Grace, with her sewing, sat by her favourite window. Captain Danton, with the Montreal True Witness, sat opposite, reading her the news. Grace was not very profoundly interested in the political questions then disturbing Canada, or in the doings and sayings of the Canadian Legislature; but she listened with a look of pleased attention to all. Presently the Captain laid down the newspaper and looked out.

"The girls and boys will be caught in the storm, as I told them they would. You and I were wisest, Grace, to stay at home."

Grace smiled and folded up her work.

"Where are you going?" asked the Captain.

"To get the remainder of this embroidery from Agnes Darling. Do you know what it is?"

"How should I?"

"Well, then, it is a part of Miss Kate's bridal outfit. June will soon be here, although to-day does not look much like it."

She went out and descended to the sewing-room. All alone, and sitting by the window, her needle flying rapidly, was the pale seamstress.

"Have you finished those bands, Miss Darling? Ah, I see you have and very nicely. I am ready for them, and will take them upstairs. Are these the sleeves you are working on?"

Miss Darling replied in the affirmative, and Grace turned to depart. On the threshold she paused.

"You don't look very well, Miss Darling," she said, kindly; "don't work too late. There is no hurry with the things."

She returned to the parlour, where Captain Danton, who had become very fond of his housekeeper's society of late, still sat. And Agnes Darling, alone in the cosy little sewing-room, worked busily while the light lasted. When it grew too dark for the fine embroidery, she dropped it in her lap, and looked out at the wintry prospect.

The storm that had been threatening all day was rising fast. The wind had increased to a gale, and shook the windows and doors, and worried the trees, and went shrieking off over the bleak marshes, to a wild gulf and rushing river. Great snowflakes fluttered through the leaden air, faster and faster, and faster, until presently all was lost in a dizzy cloud of falling whiteness. A wild and desolate evening, making the pleasant little room, with its rosy fire, and carpet, and pretty furniture, tenfold pleasanter by contrast. A bleak and terrible evening for all wayfarers—bitterly cold, and darkening fast.

The seamstress sat while the dismal daylight faded drearily out, her hands lying idly in her lap, her great, melancholy dark eyes fixed on the fast-falling snow. The tokens of sickness and sorrow lingered more marked than ever in that wasted form and colourless face, and the ruddy glow of the fire-light flickered on her mourning dress. Weary and lonely, she looked as the dying day.

Presently, above the shrieking of the stormy wind, came another sound—the loud jingling of sleigh-bells. Dimly through the fluttering whiteness of the snow-storm she saw the sleighs whirl up to the door, and their occupants, in a tumult of laughter, hurrying rapidly into the house. She could hear those merry laughs, those feminine tones, and the pattering of gaitered feet up the stairs. She could hear the deeper voices of the gentlemen, as they stamped and shook the snow off their hats and great-coats in the hall. She listened and looked out again at the wintry twilight.

"Oh!" she thought, with weary sadness, "what happy people there are in the world! Women who love and are beloved, who have everything their hearts desire—home, and friends, and youth, and hope, and happiness. Women who scarcely know, even by hearsay, of such wretched castaways as I."

She walked from the window to the fire, and, leaning against the mantel, fixed her eyes on the flickering flame.

"My birthday," she said to herself, "this long, lonesome, desolate day. Desolate as my lost life, as my dead heart. Only two-and twenty, and all that makes life worth having, gone already."

Again she walked to the window. Far away, and pale and dim through the drifting snow, she could see the low-lying sky.

"Not all!" was the better thought that came to her in her bitterness—"not all, but oh! how far away the land of rest looks!"

She leaned against the window, as she had leaned against the mantel, and took from her bosom the locket she always wore.

"This day twelvemonth he gave me this—his birthday gift. Oh, my darling! My husband! where in all the wide world are you this stormy night?"

There was a rap at the door. She thrust the locket again in her bosom, choked back the hysterical passion of tears rising in her heart, crossed the room, and opened the door. Her visitor was Doctor Danton.

"I thought I should find you here," he said, entering.

"How are you to-day, Miss Darling? Not very well, as your face plainly testifies; give me your hand—cold as ice! My dear child, what is the trouble now?"

At the kindness of his tone she broke down suddenly. She had been alone so long brooding in solitude over her troubles, that she had grown hysterical. It wanted but that kindly voice and look to open the closed flood-gates of her heart. She covered her face with her hands, and broke out into a passionate fit of crying.

Doctor Frank led her gently to a seat, and stood leaning against the chimney, looking into the dying fire, and not speaking. The hysterics would pass, he knew, if she were let alone; and when the sobbing grew less violent, he spoke.

"You sit alone too much," he said quietly; "it is not good for you. You must give it up, or you will break down altogether."

"Forgive me," said Agnes, trying to choke back the sobs. "I am weak and miserable, and cannot help it. I did not mean to cry now."

"You are alone too much," repeated the Doctor; "it won't do. You think too much of the past, and despond too much in the present. That won't do either. You must give it up."

His calm, authoritative tone soothed her somehow. The tears fell less hotly, and she lifted her poor, pale face.

"I am very foolish, but it is my birthday, and I could not help—"

She broke down again.

"It all comes of being so much alone," repeated Doctor Frank. "It won't do. Agnes, how often must I tell you so? Do you know what they say of you in the house?"

"No," looking up in quick alarm.

"They accuse you of having something on your mind. The servants look at you with suspicion, and it all comes of your love of solitude, your silence and sadness. Give it up, Agnes, give it up."

"Doctor Danton," she cried, piteously, "what can I do? I am the most unhappy woman in all the world. What can I do?"

"There is no need of you being the most unhappy woman in the world; there is no need of your being unhappy at all."

She looked up at him in white, voiceless appeal, her lips and hands trembling.

"Don't excite yourself—don't be agitated. I have no news for you but I think I may bid you hope with safety. I don't think it was a ghost you saw that night."

She gave a little cry, and then sat white and still, waiting.

"I don't think it was a ghost," he repeated, lowering his voice. "I don't think he is dead."

She did not speak; she only sat looking up at him with that white, still face.

"There is no need of your wearing a widow's weeds, Agnes," he said, touching her black dress; "I believe your husband to be alive."

She never spoke. If her life had depended on it, she could not have uttered a word—could not have removed her eyes from his face.

"I have no positive proof of what I say, but a conviction that is equal to any proof in my own mind. I believe your husband to be alive—I believe him to be an inmate of this very house."

He stopped in alarm. She had fallen back in her chair, the bluish pallor of death overspreading her face.

"I should have prepared you better," he said. "The shock was too sudden. Shall I go for a glass of water?"

She made a slight motion in the negative, and whispered the word,

"Wait!"

A few moments' struggle with her fluttering breath, and then she was able to sit up.

"Are you better again? Shall I go for the water?"

"No, no! Tell me—"

She could not finish the sentence.

"I have no positive proof," said Doctor Danton, "but the strongest internal conviction. I believe your husband to be in hiding in this house. I believe you saw him that night, and no spirit."

"Go on, go on!" she gasped.

"You have heard of Mr. Richards, the invalid, shut upstairs, have you not? Yes. Well, that mysterious individual is your husband."

She rose up and stood by him, white as death.

"Are you sure?"

"Morally, yes. As I told you, I have no proof as yet and I should not have told you so soon had I not seen you dying by inches before my eyes. Can you keep up heart now, little despondent?"

She clasped her hands over that wildly-throbbing heart, still not quite sure that she heard aright.

"You are to keep all this a profound secret," said the Doctor, "until I can make my suspicions certainties. They say women cannot keep a secret—is it true?"

"I will do whatever you tell me. Oh, thank Heaven! thank Heaven for this!"

She had found her voice, and the hysterics threatened again. Doctor Danton held up an authoritative finger.

"Don't!" he said imperatively. "I won't have it! No more crying, or I shall take back all I have said. Tell a woman good news, and she cries; tell her bad news, and she does the same. How is a man to manage them?"

He walked across the room, and looked out at the night, revolving that profound question in his man's brain, and so unable to solve the enigma as the thousands of his brethren who have perplexed themselves over the same question before. After staring a moment at the blinding whirl of snow he returned to the seamstress.

"Are you all right again, and ready to listen to me?"

Her answer was a question.

"How have you found this out?"

"I haven't found it out. I have only my own suspicions—very strong ones, though."

A shadow of doubt saddened and darkened her face. Her clasped hands drooped and fell.

"Only a suspicion, after all! I am afraid to hope, seems so unreal, so improbable. If it were Harry, why should he be here? Why should Captain Danton protect and shield him?"

"That is what I am coming to. You knew very little of your husband before you married him. Are you sure he did not marry you under an assumed name?"

A flash of colour darted across her colourless face at the words. Doctor Danton saw it.

"Are you sure Darling was your husband's name?" he reiterated, emphatically.

"I am not sure," she said faintly. "I have reason to think it was not."

"Do you know what his name was?"

"No."

"Then I do. I think his name was Danton."

"Danton!"

"Henry Richard Danton—Captain Danton's only son."

She looked at him in breathless wonder.

"Captain Danton's only son," went on the Doctor. "You have not lived all these months in this house without knowing that Captain Danton had a son?"

"I have heard it."

"Three years ago this son ran away from home, and went to New York, under an assumed name. Three years ago Henry Darling came first to New York from Canada. Henry Darling commits a crime, and flies. A few months after Captain Danton comes here, with a mysterious invalid, who is never seen, who is too ill to leave his room by day, but quite able to go out for midnight rambles in the grounds. Old Margery has known Captain Danton's son from childhood. She sees Mr. Richards returning from one of those midnight walks, and falls down in a fit. She says she has seen Master Harry's ghost—Master Harry being currently believed to be dead. Shortly after, you see Mr. Richards on a like occasion, and you fall down in a fit. You say you have seen the apparition of your husband, Henry Darling. Putting all this together, and adding it up, what does it come to? Are you good at figures?"

She could not answer him. The ungovernable astonishment of hearing what she had heard, struck her speechless once more.

"Don't take the trouble to speak," said Doctor Frank, "my news has stunned you. I shall leave you to think it all over by yourself, and I trust there will be an end of tears and melancholy faces. It is ever darkest before the day dawns. Good-evening!"

He was going, but she laid her hand on his arm.

"Wait a moment," she said, finding her voice. "I am so confused and bewildered that I hardly understand what you have said. But should it all be true—you know—you know—" averting her face, "he believes me guilty!"

"We will undeceive him; I can give him proofs, 'strong as Holy Writ;' and, if he loves you, he will be open to conviction. All will come right after a while; only have patience and wait. Keep up a good heart, my dear child, and trust in God."

She dropped feebly into a chair, looking with a bewildered face at the fire.

"I can't realize it," she murmured. "It is like a scene in a novel. I can't realize it."

She heard the door close behind Doctor Frank—she heard a girlish voice accost him in the hall. It was Miss Rose, in a rustling silk dinner-dress, with laces, and ribbons, and jewels fluttering and sparkling about her.

"Is Agnes Darling in there?" she asked suspiciously.

"Yes. I have just been making a professional call."

"Professional! I thought she was well."

"Getting well, my dear Miss Rose; getting well, I am happy to say. It is the duty of a conscientious physician to see after his patients until they are perfectly recovered."

"I wonder if conscientious physicians find the duty more binding in the case of young and pretty patients than in that of old and ugly ones?"

"No," said Doctor Frank, impressively. "To professional eyes, the suffering fellow-creature is a suffering fellow-creature, and nothing more. Think better of us, my dear girl; think better of me."

After dinner, in the drawing-room, Captain Danton, with Grace for a partner, the Doctor with Eeny, sat down to a game of cards. Kate sat at the piano, singing a fly-away duet with Miss Howard. Mr. Howard stood at Miss Danton's right elbow devotedly turning the music; and in a little cozy velvet sofa, just big enough for two, Reginald and Rose were tete-a-tete.

In the changed days that came after, Doctor Frank remembered that picture—the exquisite face at the piano, the slender and stately form, the handsome man, and the pretty coquette on the sofa. The song sung that night brought the tableau as vividly before him years and years after, as when he saw it then.

The song was ended. Miss Danton's ringed white fingers were flying over the keys in a brilliant waltz. George Howard and Rose were floating round and round, in air, as it seemed, and Stanford was watching with half-closed eyes. And in the midst of all, above the ringing music and the sighing of the wild wind, there came the clanging of sleigh-bells and a loud ring at the house-door. Rose and George Howard ceased their waltz. Kate's flying fingers stopped. The card-party looked up inquisitively.

"Who can it be," said the Captain, "'who knocks so loud, and knocks so late,' this stormy night?"

The servant who threw open the drawing-room door answered him. "M. La Touche," announced Babette, and vanished.

There was a little cry of astonishment from Rose; an instant's irresolute pause. Captain Danton arose. The name was familiar to him from his daughter. But Rose had recovered herself before he could advance, and came forward, her pretty face flushed.

"Where on earth did you drop from?" she asked, composedly shaking hands with him. "Did you snow down from Ottawa?"

"No," said M. La Touche. "I've snowed down from Laprairie. I came from Montreal in this evening's train, and drove up here, in spite of wind and weather."

Captain Danton came forward; and Rose, still a little confused, presented M. La Touche. The cordial Captain shook with his usual heartiness the proffered hand of the young man, bade him welcome, and put an instant veto on his leaving them that night.

"There are plenty of bedrooms here, and it is not a night to turn an enemy's dog from the door. My cousin, Miss Grace Danton, M. La Touche; my daughter, Eveleen; and Doctor Frank Danton."

M. La Touche bowed with native grace to these off-hand introductions, and then was led off by Rose to the piano-corner, to be duly presented there. She had not made up her mind yet whether she were vexed or pleased to see her lover. Whatever little affection she had ever given him—and it must have been of the flimsiest from the first—had evaporated long ago, like smoke. But Rose had no idea of pining in maiden solitude, even if she lost the fascinating Reginald, and she knew that homely old saw about coming to the ground between two stools.

M. La Touche had the good fortune to produce a pleasing impression upon all to whom he was introduced. He was very good-looking, with dark Canadian eyes and hair, and olive skin. He was rather small and slight, and his large dark eyes were dreamy, and his smile as gentle as a girl's.

Mr. Stanford, resigned his place on the sofa to M. La Touche, and Rose and the young Canadian were soon chattering busily in French.

"Why did you not write and tell me you were coming?"

"Because I did not know I was coming. Rose, I am the luckiest fellow alive!"

His dark eyes sparkled; his olive face flushed. Rose looked at him wonderingly.

"How?"

"I have had a fortune left me. I am a rich man, and I have come here to tell you, my darling Rose."

"A fortune!" repeated Rose, opening her brown eyes.

"Yes, m'amour! You have heard me speak of my uncle in Laprairie, who is very rich? Well, he is dead, and has left all he possesses to me."

Rose clasped her hands.

"And how much is it?"

"Forty thousand pounds!"

"Forty thousand pounds!" repeated Rose, quite stunned by the magnitude of the sum.

"Am I not the luckiest fellow in the world?" demanded the young legatee with exultation. "I don't care for myself alone, Rose, but for you. There is nothing to prevent our marriage now."

Rose wilted down suddenly, and began fixing her bracelets.

"I shall take a share in the bank with my father," pursued the young man; "and I shall speak to your father to-morrow for his consent to our union!"

Rose still twitched her bracelets, her colour coming and going. She could see Reginald Stanford without looking up; and never had he been so handsome in her eyes; never had she loved him as she loved him now.

"You say nothing, Rose," said her lover. "Mon Dieu! you cannot surely love me less!"

"Hush!" said Rose, rather sharply, "they will hear you. It isn't that, but—but I don't want to be married just yet. I am too young."

"You did not think so at Ottawa."

"Well," said Rose, testily; "I think so now, and that is enough. I can't get married yet; at least not before July."

"I am satisfied to wait until July," said La Touche, smiling. "No doubt, you will feel older and wiser by that time."

"Does your father know?" asked Rose.

"Yes, I told him before I left home. They are all delighted. My mother and sisters send endless love."

Rose remained silent for a moment, thoughtfully twisting her bracelet. She liked wealth, but she liked Reginald Stanford better than all the wealth in the world. Jules La Touche, with forty thousand pounds, was not to be lightly thrown over; but she was ready at any moment to throw him over for the comparatively poor Englishman. She had no wish to offend her lover. Should her dearer hopes fail, he would be a most desirable party.

"What is the matter with you, Rose?" demanded Jules, uneasily. "You are changed. You are not what you were in Ottawa. Even your letters of late are not what they used to be. Why is it? What have I done?"

"You foolish fellow," said Rose, smiling, "nothing! I am not changed. You only fancy it."

"Then I may speak to your father?"

"Wait until to-morrow," said Rose. "I will think of it. You shall have my answer after breakfast. Now, don't wear that long face—there is really no occasion."

Rose dutifully lingered by his side all the evening; but she stole more glances at Kate's lover than she did at her own. Jules La Touche felt the impalpable change in her; and yet it would have puzzled him to define it. His nature was gentle and tender, and he loved the pretty, fickle, rosy beauty with a depth and sincerity of which she was totally unworthy.

Upstairs, in her room, that night, Rose sat before the fire, toasting her feet and thinking. Yes, thinking. She was not guilty of it often; but to-night she was revolving the pros and cons of her own case. If she refused to let Jules speak to her father, nothing would persuade him that her love had not died out. He might depart in anger, and she might lose him forever. That was the very last thing she wished. If she lost Reginald, it would be some consolation to marry, immediately after, a richer man. It would be revenge; it would prove how little she cared for him; it would deprive him of the pleasure of thinking she was pining in maiden loneliness for him. Then, too, the public announcement of her engagement and approaching marriage to M. La Touche might arouse him to the knowledge of how much he loved her. "How blessings brighten as they take their flight!" and jealousy is infallible to bring dilatory lovers to the point. No question of the right or wrong of the matter troubled the second Miss Danton's easy conscience.

On the whole, everything was in favour of M. La Touche's speaking to papa. Rose resolved he should speak, took off her considering cap, and went to bed.

M. La Touche was not kept long in suspense next day; he got his answer before breakfast. The morning was sunny and mild, but the snow lay piled high on all sides; and Rose, running down stairs some ten minutes before breakfast-time, found her lover in the open hall door, watching the snowbirds and smoking a cigar. Rose went up to him with very pretty shyness, and the young man flung away his cigar, and looked at her anxiously.

"What a lovely morning," said Rose; "what splendid sleighing we will have."

"I'm not going to talk of sleighing," said M. La Touche, resolutely. "You promised me an answer this morning. What is it?"

Rose began playing with her cord and tassels.

"What is it?" reiterated the Canadian. "Yes or No?"

"Yes!"

M. La Touche's anxious countenance turned rapturous, but Miss Grace Danton was coming down stairs, and he had to be discreet. Grace lingered a few moments talking of the weather, and Rose took the opportunity of making her escape.

After breakfast, when the family were dispersing, M. La Touche followed Captain Danton out of the room, and begged the favour of a private interview. The Captain looked surprised, but agreed readily, and led the way to his study, no shadow of the truth dawning on his mind.

That awful ordeal of most successful wooers, "speaking to papa," was very hard to begin; but M. La Touche, encouraged by the recollection of the forty thousand pounds, managed to begin somehow. He made his proposal with a modest diffidence that could not fail to please.

"We have loved each other this long time," said the young man; "but I never dreamed of speaking to you so soon. I was only a clerk in our house, and Rose and I looked forward to years of waiting. This legacy, however, has removed all pecuniary obstacles, and Rose has given me consent to speak to you."

Imagine the Captain's surprise. His little curly-haired Rose, whom he looked upon as a tall child, engaged to be married!

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Captain Danton, naively; "you have taken me completely aback! I give you my word of honour, I never thought of such a thing!"

"I hope you will not object, sir; I love your daughter most sincerely."

The anxious inquiry was unneeded. Captain Danton had no idea of objecting. He knew the La Touche family well by repute; he liked this modest young wooer; and forty thousand pounds for his dowerless daughter was not to be lightly refused.

"Object!" he cried, grasping his hand. "Not I. If you and Rose love each other, I am the last one in the world to mar your happiness. Take her, my lad, with my best wishes for your happiness."

The young Canadian tried to express his gratitude, but broke down at the first words.

"Never mind," said the Captain, laughing. "Don't try to thank me. Your father knows, of course?"

"Yes, sir. I spoke to him before I left Ottawa. He and all our family are delighted with my choice."

"And when is it to be?" asked the Captain, still laughing.

"What?"

"The wedding, of course!"

M. La Touche's dark face reddened like a girl's. "I don't know, sir. We have not come to that yet."

"Let me help you over the difficulty, then. Make it a double wedding."

"A double wedding?"

"Yes. My daughter Kate is to be married to Mr. Stanford on the fifth of June. Why not make it a double match."

"With all my heart, sir, if Rose is willing!"

"Go and ask her then. But first, of course, after this, you remain with us for some time?"

"I can stay a week or two; after that, business will compel me to leave."

"Well, business must be attended to. Go, speak to Rose, and success to you!"

Jules found Rose in the drawing-room, and alone. His face told how eminently satisfactory his interview had been. He sat down beside her, and related what had passed, ending with her father's proposal.

"Do say yes, Rose," pleaded Jules. "June is as long as I can wait, and I should like a double wedding of all things."

Rose's face turned scarlet, and she averted her head. The familiar announcement of Reginald's marriage to her sister, as a matter of certainty, stung her to the heart.

"You don't object, Rose?" he said uneasily. "You will be married the same day?"

"Settle it as you like," answered Rose petulantly. "If I must be married, it doesn't much matter when."

That day, when the ladies were leaving the dinner-table, Captain Danton arose.

"Wait one moment," he said; "I have a toast to propose before you go. Fill your glasses and drink long life and prosperity to Mr. and Mrs. Jules La Touche."

Every one but Grace was electrified, and Rose fairly ran out of the room. M. La Touche made a modest little speech of thanks, and then Mr. Stanford held the door open for the ladies to pass.

Rose was not in the drawing-room when they entered, and Kate ran up to her room; but the door was locked, and Rose would not let her in.

"Go away, Kate," she said, almost passionately. "Go away and leave me alone."

Rose kept her chamber all the evening, to the amazement of the rest. The young Canadian was the lion of the hour, and bore his honours with that retiring modesty which so characterized him, and which made him such a contrast to the brilliant and self-conscious Mr. Stanford.

Rose descended to the breakfast next morning looking shy and queer. Before the meal was over, however, the bashfulness, quite foreign to her usual character, wore pretty well away, and she agreed to join a sleighing-party over to Richelieu, a neighbouring village.

They were six in all—Kate and Mr. Stanford, Rose and Mr. La Touche, Eeny and Doctor Frank. Sir Ronald Keith had departed some time previously, for a tour through the country with Lord Ellerton, and his memory was a thing of the past already.

The Captain, an hour after their departure, sought out Grace in the dining-room, where she sat at work. He looked grave and anxious, and, sitting down beside her, said what he had to say with many misgivings.

"I am double her age," he thought. "I have a son old enough to be her husband; how can I hope?"

But for all that he talked, and Grace listened, her sewing lying idly in her lap; one hand shading her face, the other held in his. He talked long and earnestly, and she listened, silent and with shaded face.

"And now Grace, my dear, you have heard all; what do you say? When I lose my girls, shall I go back to the old life, or shall I stay? I can't stay unless you say yes, Grace. I am double your age, but I love you very dearly, and will do my best to make you happy. My dear, what do you say?" She looked up at him for the first time, her eyes full of tears.

"Yes!"



CHAPTER XIV.

TRYING TO BE TRUE.

Late that evening, the sleighing party returned in high good spirits—all exhilaration after their long drive through the frosty air. Crescent moon and silver stars spangled the deep Canadian sky, glittering coldly bright in the hard white snow, as they jingled merrily up to the door.

"Oh, what a night!" Kate cried. "It is profanation to go indoors."

"It is frostbitten noses to stay out," answered Reginald. "Moonlight is very well in its place; but I want my dinner."

The sleighing party had had one dinner that day, but were quite ready for another. They had stopped at noon at a country inn, and fared sumptuously on fried ham and eggs and sour Canadian bread, and then had gone off rambling up the hills and into the woods.

How it happened, no one but Reginald Stanford ever knew; but it did happen that Kate was walking beside Jules La Touche up a steep, snowy hill, and Reginald was by Rose's side in a dim, gloomy forest-path. Rose had no objection. She walked beside him, looking very pretty, in a black hat with long white plume and little white veil. They had walked on without speaking until her foolish heart was fluttering, and she could stand it no longer. She stopped short in the woodland aisle, through which the pale March sunshine sifted, and looked up at him for the first time.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"For a walk," replied Mr. Stanford, "and a talk. You are not afraid, I hope?"

"Afraid?" said Rose, the colour flushing her face. "Of what should I be afraid?"

"Of me!"

"And why should I be afraid of you?"

"Perhaps because I may make love to you? Are you?"

"No."

"Come on, then."

He offered his arm, and Rose put her gloved fingers gingerly in his coat-sleeve, her heart fluttering more than ever.

"You are going to be married," he said, "and I have had no opportunity of offering my congratulations. Permit me to do it now."

"Thank you."

"Your M. La Touche is a pleasant little fellow, Rose. You and he have my best wishes for your future happiness."

"The 'pleasant little fellow' and myself are exceedingly obliged to you!" her eyes flashing; "and now, Mr. Stanford, if you have said all you have to say, suppose we go back?"

"But I have not said all I have to say, nor half. I want to know why you are going to marry him?"

"And I want to know," retorted Rose, "what business it is of yours?"

"Be civil Rose! I told you once before, if you recollect, that I was very fond of you. Being fond of you, it is natural I should take an interest in your welfare. What are you going to marry him for?"

"For love!" said Rose, spitefully.

"I don't believe it! Excuse me for contradicting you, my dear Rose; but I don't believe it. He is a good-looking lamb-like little fellow, and he is worth forty thousand pounds; but I don't believe it!"

"Don't believe it, then. What you believe, or what you disbelieve, is a matter of perfect indifference to me," said Rose, looking straight before her with compressed lips.

"I don't believe that, either. What is the use of saying such things to me?"

"Mr. Stanford, do you mean to insult me?" demanded Rose furiously. "Let me go this instant. Fetch me back to the rest. Oh, if papa were here, you wouldn't dare to talk to me like that. Reginald Stanford, let me go. I hate you!"

For Mr. Stanford had put his arm around her waist, and was looking down at her with those darkly daring eyes. What could Rose do?—silly, love-sick Rose. She didn't hate him, and she broke out into a perfect passion of sobs.

"Sit down, Rose," he said, very gently, leading her to a mossy knoll under a tree; "and, my darling, don't cry. You will redden your eyes, and swell your nose, and won't look pretty. Don't cry any more!"

If Mr. Stanford had been trying for a week, he could have used no more convincing argument.

Rose wiped her eyes gracefully; but wouldn't look at him.

"That's a good girl!" said Stanford. "I will agree to everything rather than offend you. You love M. La Touche, and you hate me. Will that do?"

"Let us go back," said Rose, stiffly, getting up. "I don't see what you mean by such talk. I know it is wrong and insulting."

"Do you feel insulted?" he asked, smiling down at her.

"Let me alone!" cried Rose, the passionate tears starting to her eyes again. "Let me alone, I tell you! You have no business to torment me like this!"

He caught her suddenly in his arms, and kissed her again and again.

"Rose! Rose! my darling! you love me, don't you? My dear little Rose, I can't let you marry Jules La Touche, or any one else."

He released her just in time.

"Rose! Rose!" Kate's clear voice was calling somewhere near.

"Here we are," returned Stanford, in answer, for Rose was speechless; and two minutes later they were face to face with Miss Danton and M. La Touche.

Mr. Stanford's face was clear as the blue March sky, but Rose looked as flushed and guilty as she felt. She shrank from looking at her sister or lover, and clung involuntarily to Reginald's arm.

"Have you been plotting to murder any one?" asked Kate. "You look like it."

"We have been flirting," said Mr. Stanford, with the most perfect composure. "You don't mind, do you? M. La Touche, I resign in your favour. Come, Kate."

Rose and Reginald did not exchange another word all day. Rose was very subdued, very still. She hardly opened her lips all the afternoon to the unlucky Jules. She hardly opened them at dinner, except to admit the edibles, and she was unnaturally quiet all the evening. She retired into a corner with some crochet-work, and declined conversation and coffee alike, until bedtime. She went slowly and decorously upstairs, with that indescribable subdued face, and bade everybody good-night without looking at them.

Eeny, who shared Grace's room, sat on a stool before the bedroom fire a long time that night, looking dreamily into the glowing coals.

Grace, sitting beside her, combing out her own long hair, watched her in silence.

Presently Eeny looked up.

"How odd it seems to think of her being married."

"Who?"

"Rose. It seems queer, somehow. I don't mind Kate. I heard before ever she came here that she was going to be married; but Rose—I can't realize it."

"I have known it this long time," said Grace. "She told me the day she returned from Ottawa. I am glad she is going to do so well."

"I like him very much," said Eeny; "but he seems too quiet for Rose. Don't he?"

"People like to marry their own opposite," answered Grace. "Not that but Rose is getting remarkably quiet herself. She hadn't a word to say all the evening."

"It will be very lonely when June comes, won't it, Grace?" said Eeny, with a little sigh. "Kate will go to England, Rose to Ottawa, your brother is going to Montreal, and perhaps papa will take his ship again, and there will be no one but you and I, Grace."

Grace stooped down and kissed the delicate, thoughtful young face.

"My dear little Eeny, papa is not going away."

"Isn't he? How do you know?"

"That is a secret," laughing and colouring. "If you won't mention it, I will tell you."

"I won't. What is it?"

Grace stooped and whispered, her falling hair hiding her face.

Eeny sprang up and clasped her hands.

"Oh, Grace!"

"Are you sorry, Eeny?"

Eeny's arms were around her neck. Eeny's lips were kissing her delightedly.

"I am so glad! Oh, Grace, you will never go away any more!"

"Never, my pet. And now, don't let us talk any longer; it is time to go to bed."

Rather to Eeny's surprise, there was no revelation made next morning of the new state of affairs. When she gave her father his good-morning kiss, she only whispered in his ear:

"I am so glad, papa."

And the Captain had smiled, and patted her pale cheek, and sat down to breakfast, talking genially right and left.

After breakfast, Doctor Frank, Mr. Stanford, and M. La Touche, with the big dog Tiger at their heels, and guns over their shoulders, departed for a morning's shooting. Captain Danton went to spend an hour with Mr. Richards. Rose secluded herself with a book in her room, and Kate was left alone. She tried to play, but she was restless that morning, and gave it up. She tried to read. The book failed to interest her. She walked to the window, and looked out at the sunshine glittering on the melting snow.

"I will go for a walk," she thought, "and visit some of my poor people in the village."

She ran up stairs for her hat and shawl, and sallied forth. Her poor people in the village were always glad to see the beautiful girl who emptied her purse so bountifully for them, and spoke to them so sweetly. She visited half-a-dozen of her pensioners, leaving pleasant words and silver shillings behind her, and then walked on to the Church of St. Croix. The presbytery stood beside it, surrounded by a trim garden with gravelled paths. Kate opened the garden gate, and walked up to where Father Francis stood in the open doorway.

"I have come to see you," she said, "since you won't come to see us. Have you forgotten your friends at Danton Hall? You have not been up for a week."

"Too busy," said Father Francis; "the Cure is in Montreal, and all devolves upon me. Come in."

She followed him into the little parlour, and sat down by the open window.

"And what's the news from Danton Hall?"

"Nothing! Oh!" said Kate, blushing and smiling, "except another wedding!"

"Another! Two more weddings, you mean?"

"No!" said Kate, surprised: "only one. Rose, you know, father, to M. La. Touche!"

Father Francis looked at her a moment smilingly. "They haven't told you, then?"

"What?"

"That your father is going to be married!"

Her heart stood still; the room seemed to swim around in the suddenness of the shock.

"Father Francis!"

"You have not been told? Are you surprised? I have been expecting as much as this for some time."

"You are jesting, Father Francis," she said, finding voice, which for a moment had failed her; "it cannot be true!"

"It is quite true. I saw your father yesterday, and he told me himself."

"And to whom—?"

She tried to finish the sentence, but her rebellious tongue would not.

"To Grace! I am surprised that your father has not told you. If I had dreamed it was in the slightest degree a secret, I certainly would not have spoken." She did not answer.

He glanced at her, and saw that her cheeks and lips had turned ashen white, as she gazed steadfastly out of the window.

"My child," said the priest, "you do not speak. You are not disappointed—you are not grieved?"

She arose to go, still pale with the great and sudden surprise.

"You have given me a great shock in telling me this. I never dreamed of another taking my dear dead mother's place. I am very selfish and unreasonable, I dare say; but I thought papa would have been satisfied to make my home his. I have loved my father very much, and I cannot get used to the idea all in a moment of another taking my place."

She walked to the door. Father Francis followed her.

"One word," he said. "It is in your power, and in your power alone, to make your father seriously unhappy. You have no right to do that; he has been the most indulgent of parents to you. Remember that now—remember how he has never grieved you, and do not grieve him. Can I trust you to do this?"

"You can trust me," said Kate, a little softened. "Good morning."

She walked straight home, her heart all in a rebellious tumult. From the first she had never taken very kindly to Grace; but just now she felt as if she positively hated her.

"How dare she marry him!" she thought, the angry blood hot in her cheeks. "How dare she twine herself, with her quiet, Quakerish ways, into his heart! He is twice her age, and it is only to be mistress where she is servant now that she marries him. Oh, how could papa think of such a thing?"

She found Rose in the drawing-room when she arrived, listening to Eeny with wide-open eyes of wonder. The moment Kate entered, she sprang up, in a high state of excitement.

"Have you heard the news, Kate? Oh, goodness, gracious me! What is the world coming to! Papa is going to be married!"

"I know it," said Kate coldly.

"Who told you? Eeny's just been telling me, and Grace told her last night. It's to Grace! Did you ever! Just fancy calling Grace mamma!"

"I shall never call her anything of the sort."

"You don't like it, then? I told Eeny you wouldn't like it. What are you going to say to papa?"

"Nothing."

"No? Why don't you remonstrate! Tell him he's old enough and big enough to have better sense."

"I shall tell him nothing of the sort; and I beg you will not, either. Papa certainly has the right to do as he pleases. Whether we like it or not, doesn't matter much; Grace Danton will more than supply our places."

She spoke bitterly, and turned to go up to her own room. With her hand on the door, she paused, and looked at Eeny.

"You are pleased, no doubt, Eeny?"

"Yes, I am," replied Eeny, stoutly. "Grace has always been like a mother to me: I am glad she is going to be my mother in reality."

"It is a fortunate thing you do," said Rose, "for you are the only one who will have to put up with her. Thank goodness! I'm going to be married."

"Thank goodness!" repeated Eeny; "there will be peace in the house when you're out of it. I don't know any one I pity half so much as that poor M. La Touche."

Kate saw Rose's angry retort in her eyes, and hurried away from the coming storm. She kept her room until luncheon-time, and she found her father alone in the dining-room when she entered. The anxious look he gave her made her think of Father Francis' words.

"I have heard all, papa," she said, smiling, and holding up her cheek. "I am glad you will be happy when we are gone."

He drew a long breath of relief as he kissed her.

"Father Francis told you? You like Grace?"

"I want to like every one you like, papa," she replied, evasively.

Grace came in as she spoke, and, in spite of herself, Kate's face took that cold, proud look it often wore; but she went up to her with outstretched hand. She never shrank from disagreeable duties.

"Accept my congratulations," she said, frigidly. "I trust you will be happy."

Two deep red spots, very foreign to her usual complexion, burned in Grace's cheeks. Her only answer was a bow, as she took her seat at the table.

It was a most comfortless repast. There was a stiffness, a restraint over all, that would not be shaken off—with one exception. Rose, who latterly had been all in the downs, took heart of grace amid the general gloom, and rattled away like the Rose of other days. To her the idea of her father's marriage was rather a good joke than otherwise. She had no deep feelings to be wounded, no tender memories to be hurt, and the universal embarrassment tickled her considerably.

"You ought to have heard everybody talking on stilts, Reginald," she said, in the flow of her returned spirits, some hours later, when the gentlemen returned. "Kate was on her dignity, you know, and as unapproachable as a princess-royal, and Grace was looking disconcerted and embarrassed, and papa was trying to be preternaturally cheerful and easy, and Eeny was fidgety and scared, and I was enjoying the fun. Did you ever hear of anything so droll as papa's getting married?"

"I never heard of anything more sensible," said Reginald, resolutely. "Grace is the queen of housekeepers, and will make the pink and pattern of matrons. I have foreseen this for some time, and I assure you I am delighted."

"So is Kate," said Rose, her eyes twinkling. "You ought to have seen her congratulating Grace. It was like the entrance of a blast of north wind, and froze us all stiff."

"I am glad June is so near," Kate said, leaning lightly on her lover's shoulder; "I could not stay here and know that she was mistress."

Mr. Stanford did not seem to hear; he was whistling to Tiger, lumbering on the lawn. When he did speak, it was without looking at her.

"I am going to Ottawa next week."

"To Ottawa! With M. La Touche?" asked Kate, while Rose's face flushed up.

"Yes; he wants me to go, and I have said yes. I shall stay until the end of April."

Kate looked at him a little wistfully, but said nothing. Rose turned suddenly, and ran upstairs.

"We shall miss you—I shall miss you," she said at last.

"It will not be for long," he answered, carelessly. "Come in and sing me a song."

The first pang of doubt that had ever crossed Kate's mind of her handsome lover, crossed it now, as she followed him into the drawing-room.

"How careless he is!" she thought; "how willing to leave me! And I—could I be contented anywhere in the world where he was not?"

By some mysterious chance, the song she selected was Eeny's "smile again, my dearest love; weep not that I leave thee."

Stanford listened to it, his sunny face overcast.

"Why did you sing that?" he asked abruptly, when she had done.

"Don't you like it?"

"No; I don't like cynicism set to music. Here is a French chansonnette—sing me that."

Kate sang for him song after song. The momentary pain the announcement of his departure had given her wore away.

"It is natural he should like change," she thought, "and it is dull here. I am glad he is going to Ottawa, and yet I shall miss him. Dear Reginald! What would life be worth without you?"

The period of M. La Touche's stay was rapidly drawing to a close. March was at its end, too—it was the last night of the month. The eve of departure was celebrated at Danton Hall by a social party. The elder Misses Danton on that occasion were as lovely and as much admired as ever, and Messrs. Stanford and La Touche were envied by more than one gentleman present. Grace's engagement to the Captain had got wind, and she shared the interest with her step-daughters-elect.

Early next morning the two young men left. There was breakfast almost before it was light, and everybody got up to see them off. It was a most depressing morning. March had gone out like an idiotic lamb, and April came in in sapping rain and enervating mist. Ceaselessly the rain beat against the window-glass, and the wind had a desolate echo that sounded far more like winter than spring.

Pale, in the dismal morning-light, Kate and Rose Danton bade their lovers adieu, and watched them drive down the dripping avenue and disappear.

An hour before he had come down stairs that morning, Mr. Stanford had written a letter. It was very short:

"Dear Old Boy:—I'm off. In an hour I shall be on my way to Ottawa, and from thence I will write you next. Do you know why I am going? I am running away from myself! 'Lead us not into temptation;' and Satan seems to have me hard and fast at Danton Hall. Lauderdale, in spite of your bad opinion of me, I don't want to be a villain if I can help it. I don't want to do any harm; I do want to be true! And here it is impossible. I have got intoxicated with flowing curls, and flashing dark eyes, and all the pretty, bewitching, foolish, irresistible ways of that piquant little beauty, whom I have no business under heaven to think of. I know she is silly, and frivolous, and coquettish, and vain; but I love her! There, the murder is out, and I feel better after it. But, withal, I want to be faithful to the girl who loves me (ah! wretch that I am!), and so I fly. A month out of sight of that sweet face—a month out of hearing of that gay, young voice—a month shooting, and riding, and exploring these Canadian wilds, will do me good, and bring me back a new man. At least, I hope so; and don't you set me down as a villain for the next four weeks, at least."

* * * * *

The day of departure was miserably long and dull at the Hall. It rained ceaselessly, and that made it worse. Rose never left her room; her plea was headache. Kate wandered drearily up stairs and down stairs, and felt desolate and forsaken beyond all precedent.

There was a strange, forlorn stillness about the house, as if some one lay dead in it; and from morning to night the wind never ceased its melancholy complaining.

Of course this abnormal state of things could not last. Sunshine came next day, and the young ladies were themselves again. The preparations for the treble wedding must begin in earnest now—shopping, dressmakers, milliners, jewellers, all had to be seen after. A journey to Montreal must be taken immediately, and business commenced. Kate held a long consultation with Rose in her boudoir; but Rose, marvellous to tell, took very little interest in the subject. She, who all her life made dress the great concern of her existence, all at once, in this most important crisis, grew indifferent.

She accompanied Kate to Montreal, however, and helped in the selection of laces, and silks, and flowers, and ribbons; and another dressmaker was hunted up and carried back.

It was a busy time after that; the needles of Agnes Darling, Eunice, and the new dressmaker flew from morning until night. Grace lent her assistance, and Kate was always occupied superintending, and being fitted and refitted, and had no time to think how lonely the house was, or how much she missed Reginald Stanford. She was happy beyond the power of words to describe; the time was near when they would never part again—when she would be his—his happy, happy wife.

It was all different with Rose; she had changed in a most unaccountable manner. All her movements were languid and listless, she who had been wont to keep the house astir; she took no interest in the bridal dresses and jewellery; she shrank from every one, and wanted to be alone. She grew pale, and thin, and hysterical, and so petulant that it was a risk to speak to her. What was the matter?—every one asked that question, and Grace and Grace's brother were the only two who guessed within a mile of the truth.

And so April wore away. Time, that goes on forever—steadily, steadily, for the happy and the miserable—was bringing the fated time near. The snow had fled, the new grass and fresh buds were green on the lawn and trees, and the birds sang their glorias in the branches so lately tossed by the wintry winds.

Doctor Danton was still at St. Croix, but he was going away, too. He had had an interview with Agnes Darling, whose hopes were on the ebb; and once more had tried to engraft his own bright, sanguine nature on hers.

"Never give up, Agnes," he said, cheerily. "Patience, patience yet a little longer. I shall return for my sister's wedding, and I think it will be all right then."

Agnes listened and sighed wearily. The ghost of Danton Hall had been very well behaved of late, and had frightened no one. The initiated knew that Mr. Richards was not very well, and that the night air was considered unhealthy, so he never left his rooms. The tamarack walk was undisturbed in the lonely April nights—at least by all save Doctor Frank, who sometimes chose to haunt the place, but who never saw anything for his pains.

May came—with it came Mr. Stanford, looking sunburned, and fresh, and handsomer than ever. As on the evening of his departure from the Hall, so on the eve of his departure from Ottawa, he had written to that confidential friend:

"Dear Lauderdale.—The month of probation has expired. To-morrow I return to Danton Hall. Whatever happens, I have done my best. If fate is arbitrary, am I to blame? Look for me in June, and be ready to pay your respects to Mrs. Stanford."



CHAPTER XV.

ONE OF EARTH'S ANGELS.

Mr. Stanford's visit to Ottawa had changed him somehow, it seemed to Kate. The eyes that love us are sharp; the heart that sets us up for its idol is quick to feel every variation. Reginald was changed—vaguely, almost indefinably, but certainly changed. He was more silent than of old, and had got a habit of falling into long brown studies in the midst of the most interesting conversation. He took almost as little interest in the bridal paraphernalia as Rose, and sauntered lazily about the grounds, or lay on the tender new grass under the trees smoking endless cigars, and looking dreamily up at the endless patches of bright blue sky, and thinking, thinking—of what?

Kate saw it, felt it, and was uneasy. Grace saw it, too; for Grace had her suspicions of that fascinating young officer, and watched him closely. They were not very good friends somehow, Grace and Kate Danton; a sort of armed neutrality existed between them, and had ever since Kate had heard of her father's approaching marriage. She had never liked Grace much—she liked her less than ever now. She was marrying her father from the basest and most mercenary motives, and Kate despised her, and was frigidly civil and polite whenever she met her. She took it very quietly, this calm Grace, as she took all things, and was respectful to Miss Danton, as became Miss Danton's father's housekeeper.

"Don't you think Mr. Stanford has altered somehow, Frank, since he went to Ottawa?" she said one day to her brother, as they sat alone together by the dining-room window.

Doctor Danton looked out. Mr. Stanford was sauntering down the avenue, a fishing-rod over his shoulder, and his bride-elect on his arm.

"Altered! How?"

"I don't know how," said Grace, "but he has altered. There is something changed about him; I don't know what. I don't think he is settled in his mind."

"My dear Grace, what are you talking about? Not settled in his mind! A man who is about to marry the handsomest girl in North America?"

"I don't care for that. I wouldn't trust Mr. Reginald Stanford as far as I could see him."

"You wouldn't? But then you are an oddity, Grace. What do you suspect him of?"

"Never mind; my suspicions are my own. One thing I am certain of—he is no more worthy to marry Kate Danton than I am to marry a prince."

"Nonsense! He is as handsome as Apollo, he sings, he dances, and talks divinely. Are you not a little severe, Grace?"

Grace closed her lips.

"We won't talk about it. What do you suppose is the matter with Rose?"

"I wasn't aware there was anything the matter. An excess of happiness, probably; girls like to be married, you know, Grace."

"Fiddlestick! She has grown thin; she mopes in her room all day long, and hasn't a word for anyone—she who used to be the veriest chatterbox alive."

"All very naturally accounted for, my dear. M. La Touche is absent—doubtless she is pining for him."

"Just about as much as I am. I tell you, Frank, I hope things will go right next June, but I don't believe it. Hush! here is Miss Danton."

Miss Danton opened the door, and, seeing who were there, bowed coldly, and retired again. Unjustly enough, the brother came in for part of the aversion she felt for the sister.

Meantime Mr. Stanford sauntered along the village with his fishing-rod, nodding good-humouredly right and left. Short as had been his stay at Danton Hall, he was very well known in the village, and had won golden opinions from all sorts of people. From the black-eyed girls who fell in love with his handsome face, to the urchins rolling in the mud, and to whom he flung handfuls of pennies. The world and Mr. Stanford went remarkably well with each other, and whistling all the way, he reached his destination in half an hour—a clear, silvery stream, shadowed by waving trees and famous in fishing annals. He flung himself down on the turfy sward, lit a cigar, and began smoking and staring reflectively at vacancy.

The afternoon was lovely, warm as June, the sky was cloudless, and the sunlight glittered in golden ripples on the stream. All things were favourable; but Mr. Stanford was evidently not a very enthusiastic disciple of Isaac Walton; for his cigar was smoked out, the stump thrown away, and his fishing-rod lay unused still. He took it up at last and dropped it scientifically in the water.

"It's a bad business," he mused, "and hanging, drawing, and quartering would be too good for me. But what the dickens is a fellow to do? And then she is so fond of me, too—poor little girl!"

He laid the fishing-rod down again, drew from an inner pocket a note-book and pencil. From between the leaves he drew out a sheet of pink-tinted, gilt-edged note paper, and, using the note-book for a desk, began to write. It was a letter, evidently; and after he wrote the first line, he paused, and looked at it with an odd smile. The line was, "Angel of my Dreams."

"I think she will like the style of that," he mused; "it's Frenchified and sentimental, and she rather affects that sort of thing. Poor child! I don't see how I ever got to be so fond of her."

Mr. Stanford went on with his letter. It was in French, and he wrote very slowly and thoughtfully. He filled the four sides, ending with "Wholly thine, Reginald Stanford." Carefully he re-read, made some erasures, folded, and put it in an envelope. As he sealed the envelope, a big dog came bounding down the bank, and poked its cold, black nose inquisitively in his face.

"Ah! Tiger, mein Herr, how are you? Where is your master?"

"Here," said Doctor Frank. "Don't let me intrude. Write the address, by all means."

"As if I would put you au fait of my love letters," said Mr. Stanford, coolly putting the letter in his note-book, and the note-book in his pocket. "I thought you were off to-day?"

"No, to-morrow. I must be up and doing now; I am about tired of St. Croix and nothing to do."

"Are you ever coming back!"

"Certainly. I shall come back on the fourth of June, Heaven willing, to see you made the happiest man in creation."

"Have a cigar?" said Mr. Stanford, presenting his cigar-case. "I can recommend them. You would be the happiest man in creation in my place, wouldn't you?"

"Most decidedly. But I wasn't born, like some men I know of, with a silver spoon in my mouth. Beautiful wives drop into some men's arms, ripe and ready, but I am not one of them."

"Oh, don't despond! Your turn may come yet!"

"I don't despond—I leave that to—but comparisons are odious."

"Go on."

"To Miss Rose Danton. She is pining on the stem, at the near approach of matrimony, and growing as pale as spirit. What is the matter with her?"

"You ought to know best. You're a doctor."

"But love-sickness; I don't believe there is anything in the whole range of physic to cure that. What's this—a fishing-rod?"

"Yes," said Mr. Stanford, taking a more comfortable position on the grass. "I thought I would try my luck this fine afternoon, but somehow I don't seem to progress very fast."

"I should think not, indeed. Let me see what I can do."

Reginald watched him lazily, as he dropped the line into the placid water.

"What do you think about it yourself?" he asked, after a pause.

"About what?"

"This new alliance on the tapis. He's a very nice little fellow, I have no doubt; but if I were a pretty girl, I don't think I should like nice little fellows. He is just the last sort of a man in the world I could fancy our bright Rose marrying."

"Of course he is! It's a failing of the sex to marry the very last man their friends would expect. But are you quite sure in this case; no April day was ever more changeable than Rose Danton."

"I don't know what you mean. They'll be married to a dead certainty."

"What will you bet on the event?"

"I'm not rich enough to bet; but if I were, it wouldn't be honourable, you know."

Doctor Frank gave him a queer look, as he hooked a fish out of the water.

"Oh, if it becomes a question of honour, I have no more to say. Do you see this fellow wriggling on my hook?"

"Yes."

"Well, when this fish swims again, Rose Danton will be Mrs. La Touche, and you know it."

He said the last words so significantly, and with such a look, that all the blood of all the Stanfords rushed red to Reginald's face.

"The deuce take your inuendoes!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?"

"Don't ask me," said Doctor Frank. "I hate to tell a lie: and I won't say what I suspect. Suppose we change the subject. Where is Sir Ronald Keith?"

"In New Brunswick, doing the wild-woods and shooting bears. Poor wretch! With all his eight thousand a year, and that paradise in Scotland, Glen Keith, I don't envy him. I never saw anyone so hopelessly hard hit as he."

"You're a fortunate fellow, Stanford; but I doubt if you know it. Sir Ronald would be a far happier man in your place."

The face of the young Englishman darkened suddenly.

"Perhaps there is such a thing as being too fortunate, and getting satiated. I wish I could be steadfast, and firm, and faithful forever to one thing, like some men, but I can't. Sir Ronald's one of that kind, and so are you, Danton; but I—"

He threw his cigar into the water, and left the sentence unfinished. There was a long silence. Doctor Frank fished away as if his life depended on it; and Stanford lay and watched him, and thought—who knows what?

The May afternoon wore on, the slanting lines of the red sunset flamed in the tree-tops, and shed its reflected glory on the placid water. The hum of evening bustle came up from the village drowsily; and Doctor Danton, laying down his line, looked at his watch.

"Are you asleep, Stanford? Do you know it is six o'clock?"

"By George!" said Reginald, starting up. "I had no idea it was so late. Are you for the Hall?"

"Of course. Don't I deserve my dinner in return for this string of silvery fish? Come along."

The two young men walked leisurely and rather silently homeward. As they entered the gates, they caught sight of a young lady advancing slowly towards them—a young lady dressed in pale pink, with ribbons fluttering and curls flowing.

"The first rose of summer!" said Doctor Frank. "The future Madame La Touche!"

"Have you come to meet us, Rose?" asked Stanford. "Very polite of you."

"I won't be de trop," said the Doctor; "I'll go on."

Rose turned with Reginald, and Doctor Danton walked away, leaving them to follow at their leisure.

In the entrance Hall he met Kate, stately and beautiful, dressed in rustling silk, and with flowers in her golden hair.

"Have you seen Mr. Stanford?" she asked, glancing askance at the fish.

"Yes; he is in the grounds with Rose."

She smiled, and went past. Doctor Frank looked after her with a glance of unmistakable admiration.

"Blind! blind! blind!" he thought. "What fools men are! Only children of a larger growth, throwing away gold for the pitiful glistening of tinsel."

Kate caught a glimpse of a pink skirt, fluttering in and out among the trees, and made for it. Her light step on the sward gave back no echo. How earnestly Reginald was talking—how consciously Rose was listening with downcast face! What was that he was giving her? A letter! Surely not; and yet how much it looked like it. Another moment, and she was beside them, and Rose had started away from Reginald's side, her face crimson. If ever guilt's red banner hung on any countenance, it did on hers; and Kate's eyes wandered wonderingly from one to the other. Mr. Stanford was as placid as the serene sunset sky above them. Like Talleyrand, if he had been kicked from behind, his face would never have shown it.

"I thought you were away fishing," said Kate. "Was Rose with you?"

"I was not so blessed. I had only Doctor Frank—Oh, don't be in a hurry to leave us; it is not dinner-time yet."

This last to Rose, who was edging off, still the picture of confusion, and one hand clutching something white, hidden in the folds of her dress. With a confused apology, she turned suddenly, and disappeared among the trees. Kate fixed her large, deep eyes suspiciously on her lover's laughing face.

"Well?" she said, inquiringly.

"Well?" he repeated, mimicking her tone.

"What is the meaning of all this?"

Stanford laughed carelessly, and drew her hand within his arm.

"It means, my dear, that pretty sister of yours is a goose! I paid her a compliment, and she blushed after it, at sight of you, as if I had been talking love to her. Come, let us have a walk before dinner."

"I thought I saw you give her something? Was it a letter?"

Not a muscle of his face moved; not a shadow of change was in his tone, as he answered:

"A letter! Of course not. You heard her the other day ask me for that old English song that I sang? I wrote it out this afternoon, and gave it to her. Are you jealous, Kate?"

"Dreadfully! Don't you go paying compliments to Rose, sir; reserve them for me. Come down the tamarack walk."

Leaning fondly on his arm, Kate walked with her lover up and down the green avenue until the dinner-bell summoned them in.

And all the time, Rose, up in her own room, was reading, with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes, that letter written by the brook-side, beginning, "Angel of my Dreams."

When the family assembled at dinner, it was found that Rose was absent. A servant sent in search of her returned with word that Miss Rose had a headache, and begged they would excuse her.

Kate went up to her room immediately after dinner. But found it locked. She rapped, and called, but there was no sign, and no response from within.

"She is asleep," thought Kate; and went down again.

She tried again, some hours later, on her way to her own room, but still was unable to obtain entrance or answer. If she could only have seen her, sitting by the window reading and re-reading that letter in French, beginning "Angel of my Dreams."

Rose came down to breakfast next morning quite well again. The morning's post had brought her a letter from Quebec, and she read it as she sipped her coffee.

"Is it from Virginie Leblanc?" asked Eeny. "She is your only correspondent in Quebec."

Rose nodded and went on reading.

"What does she want?" Eeny persisted.

"She wants me to pay her a visit," said Rose, folding up her letter.

"And of course you won't go?"

"No—yes—I don't know."

She spoke absently, crumbling the roll on her plate, and not eating. She lingered in the room after breakfast, when all the rest had left it, looking out of the window. She was still there when, half an hour later, Grace came in to sew; but not alone. Mr. Stanford was standing beside her, and Grace caught his last low words:

"It is the most fortunate thing that could have happened. Don't lose any time."

He saw Grace and stopped, spoke to her, and sauntered out of the room. Rose did not turn from the window for fully ten minutes. When she did, it was to ask where her father was.

"In his study."

She left the room and went to the study. Captain Danton looked up from his writing, at her entrance, in some surprise.

"Don't choke me, my dear, what is it?"

"Papa, may I go to Quebec?"

"Quebec? My dear, how can you go?"

"Very easily, papa. Virginie wants me to go, and I should like to see her. I won't stay there long."

"But all your wedding finery, Rose—how is it to be made if you go away?"

"It is nearly all made, papa; and for what remains they can get along just as well without me. Papa, say yes. I want to go dreadfully; and I will only stay a week or so. Do say yes, there's a darling papa!"

"Well, my dear, go, if you wish; but don't forget to come back in time. It will never do for M. La Touche to come here the fourth of June and find his bride missing."

"I won't stay in Quebec until June, papa," said Rose, kissing him and running out of the room. He called after her as she was shutting the door:

"Doctor Frank goes to Montreal this afternoon. If you are ready, you might go with him."

"Yes, papa; I'll be ready."

Rose set to work packing at once, declining all assistance. She filled her trunk with all her favourite dresses; stowed away all her jewellery—taking a very unnecessary amount of luggage, one would think, for a week's visit.

Every one was surprised, at luncheon, when Rose's departure was announced. None more so than Mr. Stanford.

"It is just like Rose!" exclaimed Eeny; "she is everything by starts, and nothing long. Flying off to Quebec for a week, just as she is going to be married, with half her dresses unmade. It's absurd."

The afternoon train for Montreal passed through St. Croix at three o'clock. Kate and Reginald drove to the station with her, and saw her safely seated beside Doctor Frank. Her veil of drab gauze was down over her face, flushed and excited; and she kissed her sister good-bye without lifting it. Reginald Stanford shook hands with her—a long, warm, lingering clasp—and flashed a bright, electric glance that thrilled to her inmost heart. An instant later, and the train was in motion, and Rose was gone.

The morning of the third day after brought a note from Quebec. Rose had arrived safely, and the Leblanc family were delighted to see her. That was all.

That evening, Mr. Stanford made the announcement that he was to depart for Montreal next morning. It was to Kate, of course. She had strolled down to the gate to meet him, in the red light of the sunset, as he came home from a day's gunning. He had taken, of late, to being absent a great deal, fishing and shooting; and those last three days he had been away from breakfast until dinner.

"Going to Montreal?" repeated Kate. "What for?"

"To see a friend of mine—Major Forsyth. He has come over lately, with his wife, and I have just heard of it. Besides, I have a few purchases to make."

He was switching the tremulous spring flowers along the path with his cane, and not looking at her as he spoke.

"How long shall you be gone?"

He laughed.

"Montreal has no charms for me, you know," he replied; "I shall not remain there long, probably not over a week."

"The house will be lonely when you are gone—now that Rose is away."

She sighed a little, saying it. Somehow, a vague feeling of uneasiness had disturbed her of late—something wanting in Reginald—something she could not define, which used to be there and was gone. She did not like this readiness of his to leave her on all occasions. She loved him with such a devoted and entire love, that the shortest parting was to her acutest pain.

"Are you coming in?" he asked, seeing her linger under the trees.

"Not yet; the evening is too fine."

"Then I must leave you. It will hardly be the thing, I suppose, to go to dinner in this shooting-jacket."

He entered the house and ran up to his room. The dinner-bell was ringing before he finished dressing; but when he descended, Kate was still lingering out of doors. He stood by the window watching her, as she came slowly up the lawn. The yellow glory of the sunset made an aureole round her tinseled hair; her slender figure robed in shimmering silk; her motion floating and light. He remembered that picture long afterwards: that Canada landscape, that blue silvery mist filling the air, and the tall, graceful girl, coming slowly homeward, with the fading yellow light in her golden hair.

After dinner, when the moon rose—a crystal-white crescent—they all left the drawing-room for the small hall and portico. Kate, a white shawl on her shoulders, sat on the stone step, and sang, softly, "The Young May Moon;" Mr. Stanford leaned lightly against one of the stone pillars, smoking a cigar, and looking up at the blue, far-off sky, his handsome face pale and still.

"Sing 'When the Swallows Homeward Fly,' Kate," her father said.

She sang the song, softly and a little sadly, with some dim foreshadowing of trouble weighing at her heart. They lingered there until the clock struck ten—Kate's songs and the moonlight charming the hours away. When they went into the house, and took their night-lamps, Stanford bade them good-bye.

"I shall probably be off before any of you open your eyes on this mortal life to-morrow morning," he said, "and so had better say good-bye now."

"You leave by the eight A. M. train, then," said the Captain. "It seems to me everybody is running off just when they ought to stay at home."

Stanford laughed, and shook hands with Grace and Kate—with one as warmly as with the other—and was gone. Kate's face looked pale and sad, as she went slowly upstairs with that dim foreshadowing still at her heart.

Breakfast was awaiting the traveller next morning at half-past seven, when he ran down stairs, ready for his journey. More than breakfast was waiting. Kate stood by the window, looking out drearily at the matinal sunlight.

"Up so early, Kate?" her lover said, with an expression of rapture. "Why did you take the trouble?"

"It was no trouble," Kate said, slowly, feeling cold and strange.

He sat down to table, but only drank a cup of coffee. As he arose, Captain Danton and Grace came in.

"We got up betimes to see you off," said the Captain. "A delightful morning for your journey. There is Sam with the gig now. Look sharp, Reginald; only fifteen minutes left."

Reginald snatched up his overcoat.

"Good-bye," he said, hurriedly shaking hands with the Captain, then with Grace. Kate, standing by the window, never turned round. He went up to her, very, very pale, as they all remembered afterward, holding out his hand.

"Good-bye, Kate."

The hand she gave him was icy cold, her face perfectly colourless. The cold fingers lingered around his for a moment; the deep, clear, violet eyes were fixed wistfully on his face. That was her only good-bye—she did not speak. In another moment he was out of the house; in another he was riding rapidly down the avenue; in another he was gone—and forever.



CHAPTER XVI.

EPISTOLARY.

[From Madame Leblanc to Captain Danton.]

Quebec, May 17, 18—.

Dear Sir:—I write to you in the utmost distress and confusion of mind. I hardly know how to break to you the news it is my painful duty to reveal, lest some blame should attach itself to me or mine, where I assure you none is deserved. Your daughter Rose has left us—run away; in fact, I believe, eloped. I have reason to think she was married yesterday; but to whom I have not yet discovered. I beg to assure you, Captain Danton, that neither I nor any one in my house had the remotest idea of her intention; and we are all in the greatest consternation since the discovery has been made. I would not for worlds such a thing had happened under my roof, and I earnestly trust you will not hold me to blame.

Six days ago, on the afternoon of the 11th, your daughter arrived here. We were all delighted to see her, Virginie in particular; for, hearing of her approaching marriage with M. La Touche, we were afraid she might not come. We all noticed a change in her—her manner different from what it used to be—a languor, an apathy to all things—a general listlessness that nothing could arouse her from. She, who used to be so full of life and spirits, was now the quietest in the house, and seemed to like nothing so well as being by herself and dreaming the hours away. On the evening of the third day this lassitude left her. She grew restless and nervous—almost feverishly so. Next morning this feverish restlessness grew worse. She refused to leave the house in the afternoon to accompany my daughter on a shopping expedition. Her plea was toothache, and Virginie went alone. The early afternoon post brought her what I believe she was waiting for—a letter. She ran up with it to her own room, which she did not leave until dusk. I was standing in the entrance-hall when she came down, dressed for a walk, and wearing a veil over her face. I asked her where she was going. She answered for a walk, it might help her toothache. An hour afterward Virginie returned. Her first question was for Rose. I informed her she was gone out.