"Then," exclaimed Virginie, "it must have been Rose that I met in the next street, walking with a gentleman. I thought the dress and figure were hers, but I could not see her face for a thick veil. The gentleman was tall and dark, and very handsome."

Half an hour later, Rose came back. We teased her a little about the gentleman; but she put it off quite indifferently, saying he was an acquaintance she had encountered in the street, and that she had promised to go with him next morning to call on a lady-friend of hers, a Mrs. Major Forsyth. We thought no more about it; and next morning, when the gentleman called in a carriage, Rose was quite ready, and went away with him. It was then about eleven o'clock, and she did not return until five in the afternoon. Her face was flushed, her manner excited, and she broke away from Virginie and ran up to her room. All the evening her manner was most unaccountably altered, her spirits extravagantly high, and colour like fever in her face. She and Virginie shared the same room, and when they went upstairs for the night, she would not go to bed.

"You can go," she said to Virginie; "I have a long letter to write, and you must not talk to me, dear."

Virginie went to bed. She is a very sound sleeper, and rarely wakes, when she lies down, until morning. She fell asleep, and never awoke all night. It was morning when she opened her eyes. She was alone. Rose was neither in the bed nor in the room.

Virginie thought nothing of it. She got up, dressed, came down to breakfast, expecting to find Rose before her. Rose was not before her—she was not in the house. We waited breakfast until ten, anxiously looking for her; but she never came. None of the servants had seen her, but that she had gone out very early was evident; for the house-door was unlocked and unbolted, when the kitchen-girl came down at six in the morning. We waited all the forenoon, but she never came. Our anxiety trebly increased when we made the discovery that she had taken her trunk with her. How she had got it out of the house was the profoundest mystery. We questioned the servants; but they all denied stoutly. Whether to believe them or not I cannot tell, but I doubt the housemaid.

The early afternoon post brought Virginie a note. I inclose it. It tells you all I can tell. I write immediately, distressed by what has occurred, more than I can say. I earnestly trust the poor child has not thrown herself away. I hope with all my heart it may not be so bad as at first sight if seems. Believe me my dear sir, truly sorry for what has occurred, and I trust you will acquit me of blame.

With the deepest sympathy, I remain,

Yours, sincerely, Mathilde Leblanc.

[Miss Rose Danton to Mlle. Virginie Leblanc. Inclosed in the preceding.]

Wednesday Night.

My Darling Virginie:—When you read this, we shall have parted—perhaps forever. My pet, I am married! To-day, when I drove away, it was not to call on Mrs. Major Forsyth, but be married. Oh, my dearest, dearest Virginie, I am so happy, so blessed—so—so—oh! I can't tell you of my unutterable joy! I am going away to-night, in half an hour. I shall kiss you good-bye as you sleep. In a day or two I leave Canada forever, to be happy, beyond the power of words to describe, in another land. Adieu, my pet. If we never meet, don't forget your happy, happy Rose.

[Miss Grace Danton to Doctor Frank Danton.]

Danton Hall, May 21, 18—.

My Dear Frank:—Do you recollect your last words to me as you left St. Croix: "Write to me, Grace. I think you will have news to send me before long." Had you, as I had, a presentment of what was to come? My worst forebodings are realized. Rose has eloped. Reginald Stanford is a villain. They are married. There are no positive proofs as yet, but I am morally certain of the fact. I have long suspected that he admired that frivolous Rose more than he had any right to do, but I hardly thought it would come to this. Heaven forgive them, and Heaven pity Kate, who loved them both so well! She knows nothing of the matter as yet. I dread the time when the truth will be revealed.

The morning of the 19th brought Captain Danton a letter from Quebec, in a strange hand. It came after breakfast, and I carried it myself into his study. I returned to the dining-room before he opened it, and sat down to work; but in about fifteen minutes the Captain came in, his face flushed, his manner more agitated and excited than I had ever seen it. "Read that," was all that he could say, thrusting the open letter into my hand. No wonder he was agitated. It was from Madam Leblanc, and contained the news that Rose had made a clandestine marriage, and was gone, no one knew where.

Inclosed there was a short and rapturous note from Rose herself, saying that she had been married that day, and was blessed beyond the power of words to describe, and was on the point of leaving Canada forever. She did not give her new name. She said nothing of her husband, but that she loved him passionately. There was but one name mentioned in the letter, that of a Mrs. Major Forsyth, whom she left home ostensibly to visit.

From the moment I read the letter, I had no doubt to whom she was married. Three days after Rose's departure for Quebec, Mr. Stanford left us for Montreal. He was only to be absent a week. The week has nearly expired, and there is no news of him. I knew instantly, as I have said, with whom Rose had run away; but as I looked up, I saw no shadow of a suspicion of the truth in Captain Danton's face.

"What does it mean?" he asked, with a bewildered look. "I can't understand it. Can you?"

There was no use in disguising the truth; sooner or later he must find it out.

"I think I can," I answered. "I believe Rose left here for the very purpose she has accomplished, and not to visit Virginie Leblanc."

"You believe that letter, then?"

"Yes: I fear it is too true."

"But, heavens above! What would she elope for? We were all willing she should marry La Touche."

"I don't think it is with M. La Touche," I said, reluctantly. "I wish it were. I am afraid it is worse than that."

He stood looking at me, waiting, too agitated to speak. I told him the worst at once.

"I am afraid it is with Reginald Stanford."

"Grace," he said, looking utterly confounded, "what do you mean?"

I made him sit down, and told him what perhaps I should have told him long ago, my suspicions of that young Englishman. I told him I was certain Rose had been his daily visitor during those three weeks' illness up the village; that she had been passionately in love with him from the first, and that he was a villain and a traitor. A thousand things, too slight to recapitulate, but all tending to the same end, convinced me of it. He was changeful by nature. Rose's pretty piquant beauty bewitched him; and this was the end.

"I hope I may be mistaken," I said; "for Kate's sake I hope so, for she loves him with a love of which he is totally unworthy; but, I confess, I doubt it."

I cannot describe to you the anger of Captain Danton, and I pray I may never witness the like again. When men like him, quiet and good-natured by habit, do get into a passion, the passion is terrible indeed.

"The villain!" he cried, through his clenched teeth. "The cruel villain! I'll shoot him like a dog!"

I was frightened. I quail even now at the recollection, and the dread of what may come. I tried to quiet him, but in vain; he shook me off like a child.

"Let me, alone, Grace!" he said, passionately. "I shall never rest until I have sent a bullet through his brain!"

It was then half-past eleven; the train for Montreal passed through St. Croix at twelve. Captain Danton went out, and ordered round his gig, in a tone that made the stable-boy stare. I followed him to his room, and found him putting his pistols in his coat-pocket. I asked him where he was going, almost afraid to speak to him, his face was so changed.

"To Montreal first," was his answer; "to look for that matchless scoundrel; afterwards to Quebec, to blow out his brains, and those of my shameful daughter!"

I begged, I entreated, I cried. It was all useless. He would not listen to me; but he grew quieter.

"Don't tell Kate," he said. "I won't see her; say I have gone upon business. If I find Stanford in Montreal, I will come back. Rose may go to perdition her own way. If I don't—" He paused, his face turning livid. "If I don't, I'll send you a despatch to say I have left for Quebec."

He ran down-stairs without saying good-bye, jumped into the gig, and drove off. I was so agitated that I dared not go down stairs when luncheon-hour came. Eeny came up immediately after, and asked me if I was ill. I pleaded a headache as an excuse for remaining in my room all day, for I dreaded meeting Kate. Those deep, clear eyes of hers seem to have a way of reading one's very thoughts, and seeing through all falsehoods. Eeny's next question was for her father. I said he had gone to Montreal on sudden business, and I did not know when he would return—probably soon.

She went down-stairs to tell Kate, and I kept my chamber till the afternoon. I went down to dinner, calm once more. It was unspeakably dull and dreary, we three alone, where a few days ago we were so many. No one came all evening, and the hours wore away, long, and lonely, and silent. We were all oppressed and dismal. I hardly dared to look at Kate, who sat playing softly in the dim piano-recess.

This morning brought me the dreaded despatch. Captain Danton had gone to Quebec; Mr. Stanford was not in Montreal.

I cannot describe to you how I passed yesterday. I never was so miserable in all my life. It went to my heart to see Kate so happy and busy with the dressmakers, giving orders about those wedding-garments she is never to wear. It was a day of unutterable wretchedness, and the evening was as dull and dreary as its predecessor. Father Francis came up for an hour, and his sharp eyes detected the trouble in my face. I would have told him if Kate had not been there; but it was impossible, and I had to prevaricate.

This morning has brought no news; the suspense is horrible. Heaven help Kate! I can write no more.

Your affectionate sister,

Grace Danton

[Lieutenant R. R. Stanford to Major Lauderdale.]

Quebec, May 17.

Dear Lauderdale:—The deed is done, the game is up, the play is played out—Reginald Reinecourt Stanford is a married man.

You have read, when a guileless little chap in roundabouts, "The Children of the Abbey," and other tales of like kidney. They were romantic and sentimental, weren't they? Well, old fellow, not one of them was half so romantic or sentimental as this marriage of mine. There were villains in them, too—Colonel Belgrave, and so forth—black-hearted monsters, without one redeeming trait. I tell you, Lauderdale, none of these unmitigated rascals were half so bad as I am. Think of me at my worst, a scoundrel of the deepest dye, and you will about hit the mark. My dear little, pretty little Rose is not much better; but she is such a sweet little sinner, that—in short, I don't want her to reform. I am in a state of indescribable beatitude, of course—only two days wedded—and immersed in the joys of la lune de miel. Forsyth—you know Forsyth, of "Ours"—was my aider and abettor, accompanied by Mrs. F. He made a runaway match himself, and is always on hand to help fellow-sufferers; on the ground, I suppose, that misery loves company.

To-morrow we sail in the Amphitrite for Southampton. It won't do to linger, for my papa-in-law is a dead shot. When I see you, I'll tell you all about it. Until then, adieu and au revoir.

Reginald Stanford.

[Mrs. Reginald Stanford to Grace Danton.]

Quebec, May 18.

Dear Mamma Grace:—I suppose, before this, you have heard the awful news that my Darling Reginald and I got married. Wouldn't I like to see you as you read this? Don't I know that virtuous scowl of yours so well, my precious mamma-in-law? Oh, you dear old prude, it's so nice to be married, and Reginald is an angel! I love him so much, and I am so happy; I never was half so happy in my life.

I suppose Madame Leblanc sent you the full, true, and particular account of my going on. Poor old soul! What a rare fright she must have got when she found out I was missing. And Virginie, too. Virginie was so jealous to think I was going to be married before her, as if I would ever have married that insipid Jules. How I wish my darling Reginald had his fortune; but fortune or no fortune, I love him with all my heart, and am going to be just as happy as the day is long.

I dare-say Kate is furious, and saying all kinds of hard things about me. It is not fair if she is. I could not help Reginald's liking me better than her, and I should have died if I had not got him. There! I feel very sorry for her, though; I know how I should feel if I lost him, and I dare say she feels almost as bad. Let her take Jules. Poor Jules, I expect he will break his heart, and I shall be shocked and disappointed if he does not. Let her take him. He is rich and good-looking; and all those lovely wedding-clothes will not go to waste. Ah! how sorry I am to leave them behind; but it can't be helped. We are off to-morrow for England. I shall not feel safe until the ocean is between us and papa. I suppose papa is very angry; but where is the use? As long as Reginald marries one of his daughters, I should think the particular one would be immaterial.

I am sorry I cannot be present at your wedding, Grace; I give you carte blanche to wear all the pretty things made for Mrs. Jules La Touche, if they will fit you. Tell poor Jules, when he comes, that I am sorry; but I loved Reginald so much that I could not help it. Isn't he divinely handsome, Grace? If he knew I was writing to you, he would send his love, so take it for granted.

I should like to write more, but I am going on board in an hour. Please tell Kate not to break her heart. It's of no use.

Give my regard to that obliging brother of yours. I like him very much. Perhaps I may write to you from England if you will not be disagreeable, and will answer. I should like to hear the news from Canada and Danton Hall. Rapturously thine,

Rose Stanford.

[Grace Danton to Dr. Danton.]

Danton Hall, May 30.

Dear Frank:—"Man proposes—" You know the proverb, which holds good in the case of women too. I know my prolonged silence must have surprised you; but I have been so worried and anxious, of late, that writing has become an impossibility. Danton Hall has become a maison de deuil—a house of mourning indeed. I look back as people look back on some dim, delightful dream to the days that are gone, and wonder if indeed we were so merry and gay. The silence of the grave reigns here now. The laughter, the music—all the merry sounds of a happy household—have fled forever. A convent of ascetic nuns could not be stiller, nor the holy sisterhood more grave and sombre. Let me begin at the beginning, and relate events as they occurred, if I can.

The day after I wrote you last brought the first event, in the shape of a letter from Rose to myself. A more thoroughly selfish and heartless epistle could not have been penned. I always knew her to be selfish, and frivolous, vain, and silly to the backbone—yea, backbone and all; but still I had a sort of liking for her withal. That letter effectually dispelled any lingering remains of that weakness. It spoke of her marriage with Reginald Stanford in the most shamelessly insolent and exultant tone. It alluded to her sister and to poor Jules La Touche in a way that brought the "bitter bad" blood of the old Dantons to my face. Oh, if I could have but laid my hands on Mistress Rose at that moment, quiet as I am, I think I would have made her ears tingle as they never tingled before.

I said nothing of the letter. My greatest anxiety now was lest Captain Danton and Mr. Stanford should meet. I was in a state of feverish anxiety all day, which even Kate noticed. You know she never liked me, and latterly her aversion has deepened, though Heaven knows, without any cause on my part, and she avoided me as much as she possibly could without discourtesy. She inquired, however, if anything had happened—if I had bad news from her father, and looked at me in a puzzled manner when I answered "No." I could not look at her; I could hardly speak to her; somehow I felt about as guilty concealing the truth as if I had been in the vile plot that had destroyed her happiness.

Father Francis came up in the course of the day; and when he was leaving, I called him into the library, and told him the truth. I cannot tell you how shocked he was at Rose's perfidy, or how distressed for Kate's sake. He agreed with me that it was best to say nothing until Captain Danton's return.

He came that night. It was late—nearly eleven o'clock, and I and Thomas were the only ones up. Thomas admitted him; and I shall never forget how worn, and pale, and haggard he looked as he came in.

"It was too late, Grace," were his first words. "They have gone."

"Thank Heaven!" I exclaimed. "Thank Heaven you have not met them, and that there is no blood shed. Oh, believe me, it is better as it is."

"Does Kate know?" he asked.

"Not yet. No one knows but Father Francis. He thought as I did, that it was better to wait until you returned."

"My poor child! My poor Kate!" he said, in a broken voice, "who will tell you this?"

He was so distressed that I knelt down beside him, and tried to sooth and comfort him.

"Father Francis will," I said. "She venerates and esteems him more highly than any other living being, and his influence over her is greater. Let Father Francis tell her to-morrow."

Captain Danton agreed that that was the very best thing that could be done, and soon after retired.

I went to my room, too, but not to sleep. I was too miserably anxious about the morrow. The night was lovely—bright as day and warm as midsummer. I sat by the window looking out, and saw Kate walking up and down the tamarack avenue with that mysterious Mr. Richards. They lingered there for over an hour, and then I heard them coming softly upstairs, and going to their respective rooms.

Next morning after breakfast, Captain Danton rode down to the village and had an interview with Father Francis. Two hours after, they returned to Danton Hall together, both looking pale and ill at ease. Kate and I were in the drawing-room—she practising a new song, I sewing. We both rose at their entrance—she gayly; I with my heart beating thick and fast.

"I am glad the beauty of the day tempted you out, Father Francis," she said. "I wish our wanderers would come back. Danton Hall has been as gloomy as an old bastille lately."

I don't know what Father Francis said. I know he looked as though the errand he had come to fulfil were unspeakably distasteful to him.

"Reginald ought to be home to-day," Kate said, walking to the window, "and Rose next week. It seems like a century since they went away."

I could wait for no more—I hurried out of the room—crying, I am afraid. Before I could go upstairs, Captain Danton joined me in the hall.

"Don't go," he said, hoarsely; "wait here. You may be wanted."

My heart seemed to stand still in vague apprehension of—I hardly know what. We stood there together waiting, as the few friends who loved the ill-fated Scottish Queen so well, may have stood when she laid her head on the block. I looked at that closed door with a mute terror of what was passing within—every nerve strained to hear the poor tortured girl's cry of anguish. No such cry ever came. We waited ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, half an hour, an hour, before that closed door opened. We shrank away, but it was only Father Francis, very pale and sad. Our eyes asked the question our tongues would not utter.

"She knows all," he said, in a tremulous voice; "she has taken it very quietly—too quietly. She has alarmed me—that unnatural calm is more distressing than the wildest outburst of weeping."

"Shall we go to her?" asked her father.

"I think not—I think she is better alone. Don't disturb her to-day. I will come up again this evening."

"What did she say?" I asked.

"Very little. She seemed stunned, as people are stunned by a sudden blow. Don't linger here; she will probably be going up to her room, and may not like to think you are watching her."

Father Francis went away. Captain Danton retired to his study. I remained in the recess, which you know is opposite the drawing-room, with the door ajar. I wished to prevent Eeny or any of the servants from disturbing her by suddenly entering. About an hour after, the door opened, and she came out and went slowly upstairs. I caught a glimpse of her face as she passed, and it had turned to the pallor of death. I heard her enter the room and lock the door, and I believe I sat and cried all the morning.

She did not come down all day. I called in Eeny, and told her what had happened, and shocked the poor child as she was never shocked before. At dinner-time I sent her upstairs, to see if Kate would not take some refreshment. Her knocking and calling remained unanswered. She left in despair, and Kate never came down.

Another sleepless night—another anxious morning. About eight o'clock I heard Kate's bell ring, and Eunice go upstairs. Presently the girl ran down and entered the room where I was.

"If you please, Miss Grace, Miss Kate wants you," said Eunice, with a scared face; "and oh, Miss, I think she's ill, she do look so bad!"

Wanted me! I dropped the silver I was holding, in sheer affright. What could she want of me? I went upstairs, my heart almost choking me with its rapid throbbing, and rapped at the door.

She opened it herself. Well might Eunice think her ill. One night had wrought such change as I never thought a night could work before. She had evidently never lain down. She wore the dress of yesterday, and I could see the bed in the inner room undisturbed. Her face was so awfully corpse-like, her eyes so haggard and sunken, her beauty so mysteriously gone, that I shrank before her as if it had been the spectre of the bright, beautiful, radiant Kate Danton. She leaned against the low mantelpiece, and motioned me forward with a cold, fixed look.

"You are aware," she said, in a hard, icy voice—oh so unlike the sweet tones of only yesterday—"what Father Francis came here yesterday to say. You and my father might have told me sooner; but I blame nobody. What I want to say is this: From this hour I never wish to hear from anyone the slightest allusion to the past; I never want to hear the names of those who are gone. I desire you to tell this to my father and sister. Your influence over them is greater than mine."

I bowed assent without looking up; I could feel the icy stare with which she was regarding me, without lifting my eyes.

"Father Francis mentioned a letter that R——"; she hesitated for a moment, and finally said—"that she sent you. Will you let me see it?"

That cruel, heartless, insulting letter! I looked up imploringly, with clasped hands.

"Pray don't," I said. "Oh, pray don't ask me! It is unworthy of notice—it will only hurt you more deeply still."

She held out her hand steadily.

"Will you let me see it?"

What could I do? I took the letter from my pocket, bitterly regretting that I had not destroyed it, and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

She walked to the window, and with her back to me read it through—read it more than once, I should judge, by the length of time it took her. When she faced me again, there was no sign of change in her face.

"Is this letter of any use to you? Do you want it?"

"No! I only wish I had destroyed it long ago!"

"Then, with your permission, I will keep it."

"You!" I cried in consternation. "What can you want with that?"

A strange sort of look passed across her face, darkening it, and she held it tightly in her grasp.

"I want to keep it for a very good reason," she said, between her teeth; "if I ever forget the good turn Rose Danton has done me, this letter will serve to remind me of it."

I was so frightened by her look, and tone, and words, that I could not speak. She saw it, and grew composed again instantly.

"I need not detain you any longer," she said, looking at her watch. "I have no more to say. You can tell my father and sister what I have told you. I will go down to breakfast, and I am much obliged to you."

She turned from me and went back to the window. I left the room deeply distressed, and sought the dining-room, where I found the Captain and Eeny. I related the whole interview, and impressed upon them the necessity of obeying her. The breakfast-bell rang while we were talking, and she came in.

Both Eeny and her father were as much shocked as I had been by the haggard change in her; but neither spoke of it to her. We tried to be at our ease during breakfast, and to talk naturally; but the effort was a miserable failure. She never spoke, except when directly addressed, and ate nothing. She sat down to the piano, as usual, after breakfast, and practised steadily for two hours. Then she took her hat and a book, and went out to the garden to read. At luncheon-time she returned, with no better appetite, and after that went up to Mr. Richards' room. She stayed with him two or three hours, and then sat down to her embroidery-frame, still cold, and impassionate, and silent. Father Francis came up in the evening; but she was cold and unsocial with him as with the rest of us. So that first day ended, and so every day has gone on since. What she suffers, she suffers in solitude and silence; only her worn face, haggard cheeks, and hollow eyes tell. She goes through the usual routine of life with treadmill regularity, and is growing as thin as a shadow. She neither eats, nor sleeps, nor complains; and she is killing herself by inches. We are worried to-death about her; and yet we are afraid to say one word in her hearing. Come to us, Frank; you are a physician, and though you cannot "minister to a mind diseased," you can at least tell us what will help her failing body. Your presence will do Captain Danton good, too; for I never saw him so miserable! We are all most unhappy, and any addition to our family circle will be for the better. We do not go out; we have few visitors; and the place is as lonely as a tomb. The gossip and scandal have spread like wildfire; the story is in everybody's mouth; even in the newspapers. Heaven forbid it should come to Kate's ears! This stony calm of hers is not to be trusted. It frightens me far more than any hysterical burst of sorrow. She has evidently some deep purpose in her mind—I am afraid to think it may be of revenge. Come to us, brother, and try if you can help us in our trouble.

Your affectionate sister, Grace.



CHAPTER XVII.

"SHE TOOK UP THE BURDEN OF LIFE AGAIN."

The second train from Montreal passing through St. Croix on its way to—somewhere else, was late in the afternoon of the fifth of June. Instead of shrieking into the village depot at four P.M., it was six when it arrived, and halted about a minute and a half to let the passengers out and take passengers in. Few got in and fewer got out—a sunburnt old Frenchman, a wizen little Frenchwoman, and their pretty, dark-skinned, black-eyed daughter; and a young man, who was tall and fair, and good-looking and gentlemanly, and not a Frenchman, judging by his looks. But, although he did not look like one, he could talk like one, and had kept up an animated discussion with pretty dark eyes in capital Canadian French for the last hour. He lifted his hat politely now, with "Bon jour, Mademoiselle," and walked away through the main street of the village.

It was a glorious summer evening. "The western sky was all aflame" with the gorgeous hues of the sunset; the air was like amber mist, and the shrill-voiced Canadian birds, with their gaudy plumage, sang their vesper laudates high in the green gloom of the feathery tamaracks.

A lovely evening with the soft hum of village life, the distant tinkling cow-bells, the songs of boys and girls driving them home, far and faint, and now and then the rumbling of cart-wheels on the dusty road. The fields on either hand stretching as far as the eye could reach, green as velvet; the giant trees rustling softly in the faint, sweet breeze; the flowers bright all along the hedges, and over all the golden glory of the summer sunset.

The young man walked very leisurely along, swinging his light rattan. Wild roses and sweetbrier sent up their evening incense to the radiant sky. The young man lit a cigar, and sent up its incense too.

He left the village behind him presently, and turned off by the pleasant road leading to Danton Hall. Ten minutes brought him to it, changed since he had seen it last. The pines, the cedars, the tamaracks were all out in their summer-dress of living green; the flower-gardens were aflame with flowers, the orchard was white with blossoms, and the red light of the sunset was reflected with mimic glory in the still, broad fish-pond. Climbing roses and honeysuckles trailed their fragrant branches round the grim stone pillars of the portico. Windows and doors stood wide to admit the cool, rising breeze; and a big dog, that had gambolled up all the way, set up a bass bark of recognition. No living thing was to be seen in or around the house; but, at the sound of the bark, a face looked out from a window, about waist-high from the lawn. The window was open, and the sweetbrier and the rose-vines made a very pretty frame for the delicate young face. A pale and pensive face, lit with luminous dark eyes, and shaded by soft, dark hair.

The young man walked up, and rested his arm on the low sill.

"Good-evening, Agnes."

Agnes Darling held out her hand, with a look of bright pleasure.

"I am glad to see you again, Doctor Danton; and Tiger, too."

"Thanks. I thought I should find you sewing here. Have you ever left off, night or day, since I left?"

She smiled, and resumed her work.

"I like to be busy; it keeps me from thinking. Not that I have been very busy of late."

"Of course not; the wedding-garments weren't wanted, were they? and all the trousseaux vanity and vexation of spirit. You see others in the world came to grief besides yourself, Miss Darling. Am I expected?"

"Yes; a week ago."

"Who's in the house?"

"I don't know exactly. Miss Danton is in the orchard, I think, with a book; Eeny is away for the day at Miss Howard's and the Captain went up the village an hour ago. I dare say they will all be back for dinner."

Doctor Frank took another position on the window-sill, and leaned forward, saying with a lowered voice:

"And how does the ghost get on, Agnes? Has it made its appearance since?"

Agnes Darling dropped her work, and looked up at him, with clasped hands.

"Doctor Danton, I have seen him!"

"Whom? The ghost?"

"No ghost; but my husband. It was Harry as plainly as ever I saw him."

She spoke in a voice of intense agitation; but the young Doctor listened with perfect coolness.

"How was it, Agnes? Where did you see him?"

"Walking in the tamarack avenue, one moonlight night, about a week ago, with Miss Danton."

"And you are positive it was your husband?"

"Do you think I could make a mistake in such a matter? It was Harry—I saw him clearly in the moonlight."

"It's surprising you did not run out, and fall down in hysterics at his feet."

She sighed wearily.

"No. I dared not. But, oh, Doctor Danton, when shall I see him? When will you tell him I am innocent?"

"Not just yet; it won't do to hurry matters in this case. You have waited long and patiently; wait yet a little longer until the right time comes. The happiness of knowing he is alive and well, and dwelling under the same roof with you should reconcile you to that."

"It does," she said, her tears falling softly. "Thank Heaven! he still lives. I can hope now; but, oh, Doctor, do you really think him Captain Danton's son?"

"I am certain of it; and no one will give you a more cordial welcome than Captain Danton, when I tell him the truth. Just now I have no proof. Do you know what I am going to do, Agnes?"

"No."

"Crosby is married, and living in New York. I mean to take a journey to New York shortly, and get a written declaration of your innocence from him. There—no thanks now. Keep up a good heart, and wait patiently for a month or two longer. Come, Tiger."

He was gone, whistling a tune as he went. The entrance hall was deserted, the dining-room was empty, and he ran up stairs to the drawing-room. Grace was there with her back to the door; and coming up noiselessly, he put his arm around her waist, and kissed her before she was aware.

She faced about, with a little cry, that changed to an exclamation of delight, upon seeing who it was.

"Oh, Frank! I am so glad! When did you come? I expected you a week ago."

"I know it," said her brother; "and I could have come too; but it struck me I should like to arrive to-day."

"To-day! Why? Oh, I forgot the fifth of June. It is hard, Frank, isn't it, just to think what might have been and what is."

"How does she take it?"

"She has been out nearly all day," replied Grace, knowing whom he meant; "she feels it, of course, more than words can tell; but she never betrays herself by look or action. I have never seen her shed a tear, or utter one desponding word, from the day the news reached her until this. Her face shows what she suffers, and that is beyond her power to control."

Doctor Frank walked thoughtfully to the window, and looked out at the fading brilliance of the sunset. A moment later, and Eeny rode up on horseback, sprang out other saddle on the lawn, and tripped up the steps.

Another moment, and she was in the drawing-room.

"I saw you at the window," she said. "I am glad you have come back again. Danton Hall is too dismal to be described of late. Ah! Dear old Tiger, and how are you? Doctor Frank," lowering her voice, "do you know what day this is?"

Doctor Frank looked at her with a faint shadow of a smile on his face, humming a line or two of a ballad.

"'Long have I been true to you. Now I'm true no longer.' Too bad, Eeny, we should lose the wedding, and one wedding, they say, makes many."

"Too bad!" echoed Eeny, indignantly. "Oh, Doctor Frank, it was cruel of Rose, wasn't it? You would hardly know poor Kate now."

"Hush!" said the Doctor, "here she comes!"

A tall, slender figure came out from the orchard path, book in hand, and advanced slowly towards the house. Was it the ghost, the wraith, the shadow of beautiful Kate Danton? The lovely golden hair, glittering in the dying radiance of the sunset, and coiled in shining twists round the head, was the same; the deep large eyes, so darkly blue, were clear and cloudless as ever, and yet changed totally in expression. The queenly grace that always characterized her, characterized her still; but how wasted the supple form, how shadowy and frail it had grown. The haggard change in the pale face, the nervous contraction of the mouth, the sunken eyes, with those dark circles, told their eloquent tale.

"Poor child!" Doctor Frank said, with a look of unspeakable pity and tenderness; "it was cruel!"

Eeny ran away to change her dress. Grace lightly dusted the furniture, and her brother stood by the window and watched that fragile-looking girl coming slowly up through the amber air.

"How tired she looks!" he said.

"Kate?" said Grace, coming over. "She is always like that now. Tired at getting up, tired at lying down, listless and apathetic always. If Reginald Stanford had murdered her, it would hardly have been a more wicked act."

Her brother did not reply.

A few minutes later, Kate walked into the room, still with that slow, weary step. She looked at the new-comer with listless indifference, spoke a few words of greeting with cold apathy, and then retreated to another window, and bent her eyes on her book.

Captain Danton returned just as the dinner-bell was ringing; and his welcome made up in cordiality what his daughter's lacked. He, too, had changed. His florid face had lost much of its colour, and was grown thin, and his eyes were ever wandering, with a look of mournful tenderness, to his pale daughter.

They were all rather silent. Grace and her brother and the Captain talked in a desultory sort of way during dinner; but Kate never spoke, except when directly addressed, and silence was Eeny's forte. She sat down to the piano after dinner, according to her invariable custom, but not to sing. She had never sung since that day. How could she? There was not a song in all her collection that did not bring the anguish of some recollection of him, so she only played brilliant new, soulless fantasias, that were as empty as her heart.

When she arose from the instrument, she resumed her book and sat down at a table studiously; but Doctor Frank, watching her covertly, saw she did not turn over a page in an hour. She was the first to retire—very early, looking pale and jaded to death. Half an hour later, Eeny followed her, and then Captain Danton pushed away the chess-board impatiently. He had been playing with the Doctor, and began pacing feverishly up and down the room.

"What shall I do with her?" he exclaimed. "What shall I do to keep my darling girl from dying before my eyes? Doctor Danton, you are a physician; tell me what I shall do?"

"Take her away from here," said the Doctor, emphatically. "It is this place that is killing her. How can it be otherwise? Everything she sees from morning till night brings back a thousand bitter recollections of what is past and gone. Take her away, where there will be nothing to recall her loss; take her where change and excitement will drown thought. As her mind recovers its tone, so will her body. Take her travelling for the summer."

"Yes—yes," said Grace, earnestly. "I'm sure it is the very best thing you can do."

"But, my dear," said Captain Danton, smiling a little, "you forget that the first week of July we are to be married."

"Oh, put it off," Grace said; "what does a little delay matter? We are not like Rose and Reginald; we are old and steady, and we can trust one another and wait. A few month's delay is nothing, and Kate's health is everything."

"She might go with us," said the Captain; "suppose it took place this month instead of next, and we made a prolonged wedding-tour, she might accompany us."

Grace shook her head.

"She wouldn't go. Believe me, I know her, and she wouldn't go. She will go with you alone, willingly—never with me."

"She is unjust to you, and you are so generously ready to sacrifice your own plans to hers."

"Did you ever know a young lady yet who liked the idea of a step-mother?" said Grace, with a smile. "I never did. Miss Danton's dislike and aversion are unjust, perhaps; but perfectly natural. No, no, the autumn or winter will be soon enough, and take Kate travelling."

"Very well, my dear; be it as you say. Now, where shall we go? Back to England?"

"I think not," said Doctor Frank. "England has nearly as many painful associations for her as Danton Hall. Take her where she has never been; where all things are new and strange. Take her on a tour through the United States, for instance."

"A capital idea," exclaimed the Captain. "It is what she has wished for often since we came to Canada. I'll take her South. I have an old friend, a planter, in Georgia. I'll take her to Georgia."

"You could not do better."

"Let me see," pursued the Captain, full of the hopeful idea; "we must stay a week or two in Boston, a week or two in New York; we must visit Newport and Saratoga, rest ourselves in Philadelphia and Washington, and then make straight for Georgia. How long will that take us, do you suppose?"

"Until October, I should say," returned the Doctor. "October will be quite time enough to return here. If your daughter does not come back with new life, then I shall give up her case in despair."

"I will speak to her to-morrow," said the Captain, "and start the next day. Since it must be done, it is best done quickly. I think myself it will do her a world of good."

Captain Danton was as good as his word. He broached the subject to his daughter shortly after breakfast next morning. It was out in the orchard, where she had strayed, according to custom, with a book. It was not so much to read—her favourite authors, all of a sudden, had grown flat and insipid, and nothing interested her—but she liked to be alone and undisturbed, "in sunshine calm and sweet," with the scented summer air blowing in her face. She liked to listen, dreamy and listless, and with all the energy of her nature dead within her, to the soft murmuring of the trees, to the singing of the birds overhead, and to watch the pearly clouds floating through the melting azure above. She had no strength or wish to walk now, as of old. She never passed beyond the entrance-gates, save on Sunday forenoons, when she went slowly to the little church of St. Croix, and listened drearily, as if he was speaking an unknown tongue, to Father Francis, preaching patience and long-suffering to the end.

She was lying under a gnarled old apple-tree, the flickering shadow of the leaves coming and going in her face, and the sunshine glinting through her golden hair. She looked up, with a faint smile, at her father's approach. She loved him very much still, but not as she had loved him once; the power to love any one in that old trustful, devoted way seemed gone forever.

"My pale daughter," he said, looking down at her sadly, "what shall I do to bring back your lost roses!"

"Am I pale?" she said, indifferently. "What does it matter? I feel well enough."

"I don't think you do. You are gone to a shadow. Would you like a change, my dear? Would you not like a pleasure tour this summer weather?"

"I don't care about it, papa."

"But you will come to please me. I shall take you to the Southern States, and fetch you back in the autumn my own bright Kate again."

There was no light of pleasure or eagerness in her face. She only moved uneasily on the grass.

"You will come, my dear, will you not? Eunice will accompany you; and we will visit all the great cities of this New World, that you have so often longed to see."

"I will do whatever you wish, papa," she said, apathetically.

"And you will give Eunice her orders about the packing to-day, and be ready to start to-morrow?"

"Yes, papa."

"Ogden will remain behind," continued her father, in a lowered voice. "I have said nothing to any one else as yet about Harry. I shall go and speak to them both about it now."

"Yes, papa."

She watched him striding away, with that look of weary listlessness that had grown habitual to her, and rose from her grassy couch with a sigh, to obey his directions. She found Eunice in the sewing room, with Agnes Darling, and gave her her orders to pack up, and be prepared to start next morning. Then she went back to her seat under the old apple-tree, and lay on the warm grass in a state between sleeping and waking all day long.

The day of departure dawned cloudless and lovely. Grace, her brother, and Eeny went to the station with the travellers, and saw them off. Kate's farewell was very cold, even to Eeny. What was the use of losing or being sorry to part with any one, since all the world was false, and hollow, and deceitful? She had lost something—heart—hope—conscience—she hardly knew what; but something within her that had beat high, and hopeful, and trusting, was cold and still as stone.

The little party on the platform went back through the yellow haze of the hot afternoon, to the quiet old house. Ah! how indescribably quiet and lonely now! Some one might have lain dead in those echoing rooms, so deadly was the stillness.

There was one consolation for Grace and Eeny in their solitude. Doctor Frank was going to remain in the village. It was chiefly at the solicitation of Father Francis that he had consented.

"Dr. Pillule is superannuated," said the young priest, "and old-fashioned, and obstinately prejudiced against all modern innovations, at the best. We want a new man among us—particularly now that this fever is spreading."

A low fever had been working its way, insidiously, among the people since early spring, and increasing since the warm weather had come. Perhaps the miasma, arising from the marshes, had been the cause; but several had died, and many lay ill those sunny June days.

"Your mission lies here," Father Francis said, emphatically. "You can do good, Doctor Danton. Stay!"

So Doctor Danton stayed, hanging out his shingle and taking up his abode at the village hotel. Doctor Pillule all of a sudden, like the Moor of Venice, found his occupation gone. Every one liked the pleasant young Doctor, whose ways were so different from those of Doctor Pillule, and who sat by their fevered bedsides, and talked to them so kindly. Every one liked him; and he soon found himself busy enough, but never so busy that some time, each day, he could not run up for half an hour to Danton Hall.

July came, and brought a letter from Captain Danton to Grace. Like many others, he hated letter-writing, and, never performed that duty when he could possibly avoid it. But Kate declined writing, absolutely; so it fell to his lot. They were in New York, on the eve of departure for Newport, and Kate had already benefited by the change. That was nearly all; and it was the middle of July before the second arrived. They were still at Newport, and the improvement in Kate was marked. The wan and sickly look was rapidly passing away—the change, the excitement, the sea-bathing, the gay life, were working wonders.

"She has created somewhat of a sensation here," said the latter, "and might be one of the belles, if she chose; but she doesn't choose. Her coldness, her proud and petrified air, her strange and gloomy manner, throws a halo of mystery around her, that has fixed all eyes upon her, and set all tongues going. We are quite unknown here, and I don't choose to enlighten any one. I dare say, more than one little romance has been concocted, founded on poor Kate's settled gloom; but, beyond our names, they really know nothing. Some of the young men look as if they would like to be a little more friendly, but she freezes them with one flash of her blue eyes."

August came, burning and breezeless, and they were at Saratoga, drinking Congress water, and finding life much the same as at Newport. Kate had recovered her looks, the Captain's letters said; the beauty that had made her so irresistible had returned, and made her more irresistible than ever. There was nothing like her at Saratoga; but she was as deeply wrapped in mystery as ever, and about as genial as a statue in Parian marble.

The end of August found them journeying southward. The beginning of September, and they were domesticated in the friendly Georgian homestead; and then, Kate, tired after all her wanderings, sank down in the tropical warmth and beauty, and drew a breath of relief. She liked it so much, this lovely southern land, where the gorgeous flowers bloomed and the tropic birds flitted with the hues of Paradise on their wings. She liked the glowing richness of the southern days and nights, the forests and fields so unlike anything she had ever seen before; the negroes with their strange talk and gaudy garments, the pleasant house and the pleasant people. She liked it all, and the first sensation of peace and rest she had felt all these months stole into her heart here. And yet it had done her a world of good—she was a new being—outwardly at least—although her heart felt as mute and still as ever. Her life's shipwreck had been so sudden and so dreadful, she had been so stunned and stupefied at first, and the after-anguish so horribly bitter, that this haven of rest was as grateful as some green island of the sea to a shipwrecked mariner. Here there was nothing to remind her of all that was past and gone—here, where everything was new, her poor bruised heart might heal.

Captain Danton saw and thanked Heaven gratefully for the blessed change in the daughter he loved, and yet she was not the Kate of old. All the youth and joyousness of life's springtime was gone. She sang no more the songs he loved; they were dead and buried in the dead past; her clear laugh never rejoiced his heart now; her fleeting smile came cold and pale as moonlight, on snow. She took no interest in the home she had left; she made no inquiries for those who were there.

"I have had a letter from Danton Hall," he would say; "and they are well." And she would silently bend her head. Or, "I am writing to Danton Hall; have you any message to send?" "Only my love to Eeny," would be the answer; and then she would stray off and leave him alone. She was as changed to him as she was changed in other things. Grace stood between—an insuperable barrier.

September drew to a close. October came, and with it the time for their departure. Kate left reluctantly; she longed to stay there forever, in that land of the sun, and forget and be at peace. It was like tearing half-healed wounds open to go back to a place where everything her eye rested on or her ear heard, from morning till night, recalled the bitter past. But fate was inexorable; farewell must be said to beautiful Georgia and the kind friends there; and the commencement of the second week of October found them starting on their journey to their northern home.



CHAPTER XVIII.

"IT'S AN ILL WIND THAT BLOWS NOBODY GOOD."

They journeyed northward very slowly, stopping for a few days at all the great cities, so that October was gone and part of November when they reached Montreal. There they lingered a week, and then began the last stage of their journey home.

It was a desolate afternoon, near the middle of that most desolate month, November, when Captain Danton and his daughter stepped into the railway-fly at St. Croix, and were driven, as fast as the spavined old nag would go, to Danton Hall. A desolate afternoon, with a low leaden sky threatening snow, and earth like iron with hard black frost. A wretched complaining wind that made your nerves ache, worried the half-stripped trees, and now and then a great snowflake whirled in the dull grey air. The village looked silent and deserted as they drove through it, and a melancholy bell was slowly tolling, tolling, tolling all the way. Kate shivered audibly, and wrapped her fur-lined mantle closer around her.

"What is that wretched bell for?" she asked.

"It is the passing bell," replied the father, with a gloomy brow. "You know the fever is in the village."

"And someone is dead."

She looked out with a dreary, shivering sigh over the bleak prospect. Gaunt black trees, grim black marshes, dull black river, and low black sky. Oh, how desolate! How desolate it all was—as desolate as her own dead heart. What was the use of going away, what was the use of forgetting for a few poor moments, and then coming back to the old desolation and the old pain? What a weary, weary piece of business life was at best, not worth the trouble and suffering it took to live!

The drive to the Hall was such a short one, it hardly seemed to her they were seated before they were driving up the leafless avenue, where the trees loomed unnaturally large and black in the frosty air, and the dead leaves whirled in great wild drifts under the horse's feet. The gloom and desolation were here before them too. When they had gone away, nearly six months before, those bleak avenues had been leafy arcades, where the birds sang all the bright day long, flowers had bloomed wherever her eye rested, and red roses and sweetbrier had twined themselves around the low windows and stone pillars of the portico. Now the trees were writhing skeletons, the flowers dead with the summer, nothing left of the roses but rattling brown stalks, and the fish-pond lying under the frowning wintry sky like a sheet of steel.

She went up the stone steps and into the hall, still shivering miserably under her wraps, and saw Grace, and Eeny, and the servants assembled to welcome them, and listened like one in a dream. It all seemed so flat, and dead, and unsatisfying, and the old time and the old memories were back at her heart, until she almost went wild. She could see how Eeny and Grace looked a little afraid of her, and how differently they greeted her father; and how heartily and unaffectedly glad he was to be with them once more. And then she was toiling wearily up the long, wide stairway, followed by faithful Eunice, and had the four walls of her own little sitting room around her at last.

How pretty the room was! A fire burned brightly in the glittering steel grate, the curtains were drawn, for it was already dusk, that short November afternoon; and the ruddy, cheery light sparkled on the pictures, and the book-case, and the inlaid table, and the two little vases of scarlet geraniums Grace had planted there.

Outside, in contrast to all this warmth, and brightness, and comfort, she could hear the lamentable sighing of the wild November wind, and the groaning of the tortured trees. But it brought no sense of comfort to her, and she sat drearily back while Eunice dressed her for dinner, and stared blankly into the fire, wondering if her whole life was to go on like this. Only twenty-one, and life such a hopeless blank already! She could look forward to her future life—a long, long vista of days, and every day like this.

By-and-by the dinner-bell rang, arousing her from her dismal reverie, and she went down stairs, never taking the trouble to look at herself in the glass, or to see how her maid had dressed her. Yet she looked beautiful—coldly, palely beautiful—in that floating dress of deep blue; and jewelled forget-me-nots in her rich amber hair. Her face and figure had recovered all their lost roundness and symmetry, but the former, except when she spoke or smiled, was as cold and still as marble.

Father Francis and Doctor Danton were in the dining-room when she entered, but their welcome home was very apathetically met. She was silent all through dinner, talking was such a tiresome exertion; nothing interested her. She hardly looked up—she could feel, somehow, the young priest's deep, clear eyes bent upon her in grave disapproval, against which her proud spirit mutinied.

"Why should I take the trouble to talk?" she thought; "What do I care for Doctor Danton or his sister, or what interest have the things they talk of for me?"

So she listened as if they had been talking Greek. Only once was she aroused to anything like interest. Their two guests were relating the progress of that virulent fever in the village, and how many had already been carried off.

"I should think the cold weather would give it a check," said her father.

"It seems rather on the increase," replied the priest; "there are ten cases in St. Croix now."

"We heard the bell as we drove up this afternoon," said the Captain; "for whom was it tolling?"

"For poor old Pierre, the sexton. He took the fever only a week ago, and was delirious nearly all the time."

Kate lifted her eyes, hitherto listening, but otherwise meaningless.

"Pierre, who used to light the fires and sweep the church?"

"Yes; you knew him," said Father Francis looking at her; "he talked of you more than once during his delirium. It seems you sang for him once, and he never forgot it. It dwelt in his mind more than anything else, during that last illness."

A pang pierced Kate's heart. She remembered the day when she had strayed into the church with Reginald, and found old Pierre sweeping. He had made his request so humbly and earnestly, that she had sat down at the little harmonium and played and sung a hymn. And he had never forgotten it; he had talked of it in his dying hours. The sharpest remorse she had ever felt in her life, for the good she might have done, she felt then.

"My poor people have missed their Lady Bountiful," continued Father Francis, with that grave smile of his—"missed her more than ever, in this trying time. Do you remember Hermine Lacheur, Miss Danton?"

"That pretty, gentle girl, with the great dark eyes, and black ringlets? Oh, yes, very well."

"The same. She was rather a pet of yours, I think. You taught her to sing some little hymns in the choir. You will be sorry to hear she has gone."

"Dead!" Kate cried, struck and thrilled.

"Dead," Father Francis said, a little tremor in his voice. "A most estimable girl, beloved by every one. Like Pierre, she talked a great deal of you in her last illness, and sang the hymns you taught her. 'Give my dear love to Miss Danton,' were almost her last words to me; 'she has been very kind to me. Tell her I will pray for her in Heaven.'"

There was silence.

"Oh," Kate thought, with unutterable bitterness of sorrow; "how happy I might have been—how happy I might have made others, if I had given my heart to God, instead of to His creatures. The bountiful blessings I have wasted—youth, health, opulence—how many poor souls I might have gladdened and helped!"

She rose from the table, and walked over to the window. The blackness of darkness had settled down over the earth, but she never saw it. Was it too late yet? Had she found her mission on earth? Had she still something to live for? Was she worthy of so great a charge? A few hours before, and life was all a blank, without an object. Had Father Francis been sent to point out the object for which she must henceforth live? The poor and suffering were around her. It was in her power to alleviate their poverty and soothe their suffering. The great Master of Earth and Heaven had spent His life ministering to the afflicted and humble—surely it was a great and glorious thing to be able to follow afar off in His footsteps. The thoughts of that hour changed the whole tenor of her mind—perhaps the whole course of her life. She had found her place in the world, and her work to do. She might never be happy herself, but she might make others happy. She might never have a home of her own, but she might brighten and cheer other homes. As an unprofessed Sister of Charity, she might go among those poor ones doing good; and dimly in the future she could see the cloistered, grateful walls shutting her from the troubles of this feverish life. Standing there by the curtained window, her eyes fixed on the pitchy darkness, a new era in her existence seemed to dawn.

Miss Danton said nothing to any one about this new resolution of hers. She felt how it would be opposed, how she would have to argue and combat for permission; so she held her tongue. But next morning, an hour after breakfast, she came to Grace, and in that tone of quiet authority she always used to her father's housekeeper, requested the keys to the sideboard.

Grace looked surprised, but yielded them at once; and Kate, going to the large, carved, old-fashioned, walnut wood buffet, abstracted two or three bottles of old port, a glass jar of jelly, and another of tamarinds; stowed away these spoils in a large morocco reticule, returned the keys to Grace, and, going upstairs, dressed herself in her plainest dress, mantle, and hat, took her reticule, and set off. She smiled at herself as she walked down the avenue—she, the elegant, fastidious Kate Danton, attired in those sombre garments, carrying that well-filled bag, and turning, all in a moment, a Sister of Mercy.

It was nearly noon when she returned, pale, and very tired, from her long walk. Grace wondered more than ever, as she saw her dragging herself slowly upstairs.

"Where can she have been?" she mused, "in that dress and with that bag, and what on earth can she have wanted the keys of the sideboard for?"

Grace was enlightened some hours later, when Father Francis came up, and informed the household that he had found Kate ministering to one of the worst cases of fever in the village—a dying old woman.

"She was sitting by the bedside reading to her," said the priest; "and she had given poor old Madame Lange what she has been longing for weeks past, wine. I assure you I was confounded at the sight."

"But, good gracious!" cried the Captain, aghast, "she will take the fever."

"I told her so—I expostulated with her on her rashness, but all in vain. I told her to send them as much wine and jellies as she pleased, but to keep out of these pestiferous cottages. She only looked at me with those big solemn eyes, and said:

"'Father, if I were a professed Sister of Charity, you would call my mission Heaven-sent and glorious; because I am not, you tell me I am foolish and rash. I don't think I am either; I have no fear of the fever; I am young, and strong, and healthy, and do not think I will take it. Even if I do, and if I die, I shall die doing God's work. Better such a death as that than a long, miserable, worthless life.'"

"She is resolved, then?"

"You would say so if you saw her face. Better not oppose her too much, I think; her mind is set upon it, and it seems to make her happy. It is, indeed, as she says, a noble work. God will protect her."

Captain Danton sighed. It seemed to him a very dreary and dismal labour for his bright Kate. But he had not the heart to oppose her in anything, let it be never so mad and dangerous. He had never opposed her in the days of her happiness, and it was late to begin now.

So Kate's new life began. While the weeks of November were ending in short, dark, dull days, and cold and windy nights, with the dying year, many in the fever-stricken village were dying too. Into all these humble dwellings the beautiful girl was welcomed as an angel of light. The delicacies and rich wines that nourished and strengthened them they owed to her bounty; the words of holy hope and consolation that soothed their dying hours, her sweet voice read; the hymns that seemed a foretaste of Heaven, her clear voice sang. Her white hands closed their dying eyes and folded the rigid arms, and decked the room of death with flowers that took away half its ghastliness. Her deft fingers arranged the folds of the shroud, and the winding-sheet, and her gentle tones whispered comfort and resignation to the sorrowing ones behind. How they blessed her, how they loved her, those poor people, was known only to Heaven and themselves.

There were two others in all these stricken houses, at these beds of death—Father Francis and Dr. Danton. They were her indefatigable fellow-labourers in the good work, as unwearied in their zeal and patience and as deeply beloved as she was. Perhaps it was that by constantly preaching patience, she had learned patience herself. Perhaps it was through seeing all his goodness and untiring devotion, she began to realize after a while she had been unjust to Doctor Danton. She could not help liking and respecting him. She heard his praises in every mouth in the village, and she could not help owning they were well deserved. Almost without knowing it, she was beginning to like and admire this devoted young Doctor, who never wearied in his zeal, who was so gentle, and womanly, and tender to the poor and suffering. Doing the brother tardy justice, it began dimly to dawn on her mind that she might have done the sister injustice too. She had never known anything of Grace but what was good. Could it be that she had been prejudiced, and proud, and unjust from first to last?

She asked herself the question going home one evening from her mission of mercy. The long-deferred wedding was to take place on Christmas eve, and it was now the 7th of December. She was walking home alone, in the yellow lustre of the wintry sunset, the snow lying white and high all around her. Her new life had changed her somewhat; the hard look was gone, her face was far more peaceful and gentle than when she had come. Its luminous brightness was not there, perhaps; but the light that remained was far more tender and sweet. She looked very lovely, this cold, clear December, afternoon, in her dark, fur-trimmed mantle, her pretty hat, fur-trimmed too, and the long black plume contrasting with her amber-tinted hair. The frosty wind had lit a glow in her pale cheeks, and deepened the light of her starry violet eyes. She looked lovely, and so the gentleman thought, striding after her over the snowy ground. She did not look around to see who it was, and it was only when he stepped up by her side that she glanced at him, uttering a cry of surprise.

"Sir Ronald Keith! Is it really you? Oh, what a surprise!"

She held out her gloved hand. He took it, held it, looking piercingly into her eyes.

"Not an unpleasant one, I hope? Are you glad to see me?"

"Of course! How can you ask such a question? But I thought you were hundreds of miles away, shooting moose, and bears, and wolves in New Brunswick."

"And so I was, and so I might have remained, had I not heard some news that sent me to Canada like a bolt from a bow."

"What news?"

"Can you ask?"

She lifted her clear eyes to his face, and read it there. The news that she was free. The red blood flushed up in her face for a moment, and then receded, leaving her as white as the snow.

"I learned in the wilds of New Brunswick, where I fled to forget you, Kate, that that man was, what I knew he would be, a traitor and a villain. I only heard it two weeks ago, and I have never rested on my way to you since. I am a fool and a madman, perhaps, but I can't help hoping against hope. I love you so much, Kate, I have loved you so long, that I cannot give you up. He is false, but I will be true. I love you with all my heart and soul, better than I love my own life. Kate, don't send me away again. Reginald Stanford does not stand between us now. Think how I love you, and be my wife."

She had tried to stop him, but he ran on impetuously. He was so haggard and so agitated speaking to her, that she could not be angry, that she could not help pitying him.

"Don't," she said, gently; "don't, Sir Ronald. You are only paining yourself and paining me. What I told you before, you force me to tell you again. I don't love you, and I can't be your wife."

"I don't expect you to love me yet," he said, eagerly; "how should you? I will wait, I will do everything under Heaven you wish, only give me hope. Give me a chance, Kate! I love you so truly and entirely, that it will win a return sooner or later."

"Ah! don't talk to me," she said, with an impatient sigh; "don't talk to me of love. I have done with that, my heart feels like dust and ashes. I am not worthy of you—I am not worthy of such devotion. I thank you, Sir Ronald, for the honour you do me; but I cannot—I cannot marry you!"

"And you will let that poltroon Stanford boast, as he does boast, that you will live and die single for his sake!" he cried, bitterly. "He has made it the subject of a bet in a London club-room with Major Lauderdale of the Guards."

"No!" said she, her face flushing, her eyes kindling; "he never did that!"

"He did do it. I have proof of it. You loved him so well—he boasted—that you would never marry. He and Lauderdale made the bet."

She drew a long, hard breath, her eyes flashing, her white teeth clenched.

"The dastard," she cried; "the mean, lying, cowardly dastard! Oh, if I were a man!"

"Take your revenge without being a man. Prove him a liar and a boaster. Marry me!"

She did not answer; but he read hope in her flushed and excited face.

"Besides," he artfully went on, "what will you do here? You have no longer a home when your father marries; unless you can consent to be subject to the woman who was once his housekeeper. You will have no place in the world; you will only be an incumbrance; your step-mother will wish you out of the way, and your father will learn to wish as his new wife does. Oh, Kate, come with me! Come to Glen Keith, and reign there; we will travel over the world; you shall have every luxury that wealth can procure; your every wish shall be gratified; you shall queen it, my beautiful one, over the necks of those who have slighted and humiliated you. Leave this hateful Canada, and come with me as my wife—as Lady Keith!"

"Don't! don't!" she cried, lifting her hand to stop his passionate pleading. "You bewilder me; you take my breath away! Give me time; let me think; my head is whirling now."

"As long as you like, my dearest. I don't ask you for love now; that will come by-and-by. Only give me hope, and I can wait—wait as long as Jacob for Rachel, if necessary."

He lifted her hand to his lips, but let it fall quickly again, for it felt like ice. She was looking straight before her, at the pale, yellow sunset, her dark eyes filled with a dusky fire, but her face as colourless as the snowy ground.

"Are you ill, Kate?" he said, in alarm; "have I distressed you? have I agitated you by my sudden coming?"

"You have agitated me," she replied. "My head is reeling. Don't talk to me any more. I want to be alone and to think."

They walked side by side the rest of the way in total silence. When they reached the house, Kate ran up to her own room at once, while Captain Danton came out into the hall to greet his old friend. The two men lounged out in the grounds, smoking before-dinner cigars, and Sir Ronald briefly stated the object of his return, and his late proposal to his daughter. Captain Danton listened silently and a little anxiously. He had known the Scottish baronet a long time; knew how wealthy he was, and how passionately he loved his daughter; but for all that he had an instinctive feeling that Kate would not be happy with him.

"She has given you no reply, then?" he said, when Sir Ronald had finished.

"None, as yet; but she will shortly. Should that reply be favourable, Captain Danton, yours, I trust, will be favourable also?"

He spoke rather haughtily, and a flush deepened the florid hue of the Captain's face.

"My daughter shall please herself. If she thinks she can be happy as your wife, I have nothing to say. You spoke of Reginald Stanford a moment ago; do you know anything of his doings since he left Canada?"

"Very little. He has sold his commission, and quitted the army—some say, quitted England. His family, you know, have cast him off for his dishonourable conduct."

"I know—I received a letter from Stanford Royals some months ago, in which his father expressed his strong regret, and his disapproval of his son's conduct."

"That is all you know about him?"

"That is all. I made no inquiry—I thought the false hound beneath notice."

Captain Danton sighed. He had loved his pretty, bright-eyed, auburn-haired Rose very dearly, and he could not quite forget her, in spite of her misdoing. They sauntered up and down in the grey, cold, wintry twilight, until the ringing of the dinner-bell summoned them indoors. Kate was there, very beautiful, Sir Ronald thought, in that dark, rich silk, and flashing ornaments in her golden hair.

Long that night, after the rest of the household were sleeping, Kate sat musing over the past, the present, and the future. She had dismissed Eunice, and sat before the fire in a loose, white dressing-gown, her lovely hair falling around her, her deep, earnest eyes fixed on the red blaze. What should she do? Accept Sir Ronald Keith's offer, and achieve a brilliant place in the world, or sink into insignificance in this remote corner of the earth? It was all true what he had said: in a few days her father would be married. Another would be mistress where she had reigned—another, who might look upon her as an incumbrance and a burden. She had been content to remain here while she held the first place in her father's heart; but another held that place now, and would hold it forever. What should she do in the long days, and months, and years, that were to come? How should she drag through a useless and monotonous existence in this dull place? Even now, earnestly as she sought to do good in her mission of mercy, there were hours and hours of wretched, unspeakable dreariness and desolation. When her work was ended, when the fever was over, what would become of her then? That dim vision of the cloister and veil was dim as ever in the far distance. No ardent glow, no holy longing filled her heart at the thought, to tell her she had found a vocation. Her life was unspeakable empty and desolate, and must remain so forever, if she stayed here. Other thoughts were at work, too, tempting her on. The recollection of Sir Ronald's words about her recreant lover—the thought of his insolent and cowardly boast stung her to the soul. Here was the way to revenge—the way to give him the lie direct. As Sir Ronald Keith's wife, a life of splendour and power awaited her. She thought of Glen Keith as she had seen it once, old and storied, and gray and grand, with ivy and roses clustering round its gray walls, and its waving trees casting inviting shadows. Then, too, did he not deserve some return for this long, faithful, devoted love? Other girls made marriages de raison every day, and were well content with their lot—why should she not? She could not forever remain indifferent to his fidelity and devotion. She might learn to love him by-and-by.

The fire waned and burned low, the hours of the bleak winter night wore on, and three o'clock of a new day struck before the solitary watcher went to bed.

The Scotch baronet was not kept long in suspense. Next morning, as Miss Danton came down the stone steps, with something in a paper parcel for her poor, sick pensioners, Sir Ronald Keith joined her.

"I have passed a sleepless night," he said. "I shall never rest until I have your answer. When am I to have it, Kate?"

Her face turned a shade paler, otherwise there was no change, and her voice was quite firm.

"Now, if you wish."

"And it is yes," he cried, eagerly. "For Heaven's sake, Kate, say it is yes!"

"It is yes; if you can take me for what I am. I don't love you; I don't know that I shall ever love you, but I will try. If I marry you, I will be your true and faithful wife, and your honour will be as sacred as my salvation. If you can take me, knowing this, I am yours."

He caught her in his arms, and broke out into a torrent of passionate delight and thankfulness. She disengaged herself, cold and very pale.

"Leave me now," she said. "I must go to the village alone. Don't ask too much from me, Sir Ronald, or you may be disappointed."

"Only one thing more, my darling. Your father is to be married on the twenty-fourth. I am sure you will have no wish to linger in this house after that. Will you not dispense with the usual formalities and preparations, and be married on the same day?"

"Yes, yes," she said, impatiently; "let it be as you wish! What does it matter? Good-morning."

She walked away rapidly over the frozen snow, leaving the successful wooer to return to the house and relate his good luck.



CHAPTER XIX.

VIA CRUCIS.

So once more Miss Danton was "engaged;" once more preparations for a double wedding went on; once more her wedding day was named.

There was very little noise made about the matter this time. Father Francis and Doctor Danton were almost the only two outside the household who knew anything about it, and somehow these were the very two Kate herself wished most to keep it from.

She was ashamed of her mercenary marriage; in spite of herself she despised herself for it, and she felt they must despise her for it too. She shrank away guiltily under the clear steadfast, searching gaze of Father Francis, feeling how low she must have fallen in his estimation. She respected and esteemed the priest and the Doctor so much, that it was humiliating to lose their respect by her own voluntary act. But it was too late to draw back, even if she wished it; her fetters were forged—she was bound beyond recall.

Sir Ronald Keith had got the desire of his heart—Kate Danton was his promised wife, and yet he was not quite happy. Are we ever quite happy, I wonder, when we attain the end for which we have sighed and longed, perhaps for years? Our imagination is so very apt to paint that desire of our heart in rainbow-hues, and we are so very apt to find it, when it comes, only dull gray, after all.

Sir Ronald loved his beautiful and queenly affianced with a changeless devotion nothing could alter. He had thought her promise to marry him would satisfy him perfectly; but he had that promise, and he was not satisfied. He wanted something more—he wanted love in return, although he knew she did not love him; and he was dissatisfied. It is not exactly pleasant, perhaps, to find the woman you love and are about to marry as cold as an iceberg—to see her shrink at your approach, and avoid you on all possible occasions. It is rather hard, no doubt, to put up with the loose touch of cold fingers for your warmest caress, and heavy sighs in answer to your most loving speeches.

Sir Ronald had promised to be content without love; but he was not, and was huffish and offended, and savagely jealous of Reginald Stanford and all the hated past.

So the baronet's wooing was on the whole rather gloomy, and depressing to the spirits, even of the lookers-on; and Kate was failing away once more to a pale, listless shadow, and Sir Ronald was in a state of perpetual sulkiness.

But the bridal-cakes and bridal-dresses were making, and the December days were slipping by, one by one, bringing the fated time near. Miss Danton still zealously and unweariedly continued her mission of love. No weather kept her indoors, no pleadings of her future husband were strong enough to make her give up one visit for his pleasure or accommodation.

"Let me alone, Sir Ronald Keith," she would answer, wearily, and a little impatiently; "it will not be for long. Let me alone!"

The fever that had swept off so many was slowly dying out. The sick ones were not so bad or so many now, but that Miss Danton, with a safe conscience, might have given them up; but she would not. She never wanted to be alone—she who had been so fond of solitude such a short time ago. She was afraid of herself—afraid to think—afraid of that dim future that was drawing so very near. Every feeling of heart and soul revolted at the thought of that loveless marriage—the profanation of herself seemed more than she could bear.

"I shall turn desperate at the very altar!" she thought, with something like despair. "I can't marry him—I can't! It sets me wild to think of it. What a wretch I am! What a weak, miserable, cowardly wretch, not to be able to face the fate I have chosen for myself! I don't know what to do, and I have no one to consult—no one but Father Francis, and I am afraid to speak to him. I don't love him; I loathe the thought of marrying him; but it is too late to draw back. If one could only die, and end it all!"

Her arm lay across the window-sill; her head drooped and fell on it now, with a heavy sigh. She was unspeakably miserable, and lonely, and desolate; she was going to seal her misery for life by a loveless marriage, which her soul abhorred, and she had no power to draw back. She was like a rudderless ship, drifting without helm or compass among shoals and quicksands—drifting helplessly to ruin.

"If I dared only ask Father Francis, he would tell me what to do," she thought, despondingly; "he is so wise and good, and knows what is best for every one. He would tell me how to do what is right, and I want to do what is right if I can. But I have neglected, and avoided, and prevaricated with him so long that I have no right to trouble him now. And I know he would tell me I am doing wrong; I have read it in his face; and how can I do right?"

She sat thinking drearily, her face lying on her arm. It was the afternoon of the 14th—ten days more, and it would indeed, be too late. The nearer the marriage approached, the more abhorrent it grew. The waving trees of Glen-Keith cast inviting shadows no longer. It was all darkness and desolation. Sir Ronald's moody, angry face frightened and distressed her—it was natural, she supposed. She did not behave well, but he knew she did not care for him; she had told him so, honestly and plainly; and if he looked like that before marriage, how would he look after? She was unutterably wretched, poor child; and a remorseful conscience that would give her no rest did not add to her comfort.

She sat there for a long time, her face hidden on her arm, quite still. The short, wintry afternoon was wearing away; the cold, yellow sun hung low in the pale western sky, and the evening wind was sighing mournfully amid the trees when she rose up. She looked pale, but resolved; and she dressed herself for a walk, with a veil over her face, and slowly descended the stairs.

As she opened the house door, Sir Ronald came out of the drawing-room, not looking too well pleased at having been deserted all the afternoon.

"Are you going out?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Up the village."

"Always up the village!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "and always alone. May I not go with you? It is growing, late."

"There is no occasion," she replied, looking at him proudly. "I need no protector in St. Croix."

She opened the door and went out, and walked rapidly down the bleak avenue to the gates. The authoritative tone of the baronet stung her proud spirit to the quick.

"What right has he to talk to me like that?" she thought, angrily. "If I loved him, I would not endure it; I don't love him, and I won't endure it."

Her eyes flashed as she walked along, lightly and rapidly, holding her haughty head very erect. Greetings met her on every hand as she passed through the village. She never paused until she reached the church, and stood by the entrance gate of the little garden in front of the Cure's house. There she paused irresolute. How peaceful it was—what a holy hush seemed to linger round the place! All her courage left her, and she stood as timid and fluttering as any school-girl. While she hesitated, the door opened, and Father Francis stood looking at her.

"Come in, Miss Danton," he said. "You look as if you were almost afraid."

She opened the little gate and went up the path, looking strangely downcast and troubled. Father Francis held out his hand with a smile.

"I thought you would come to see me before you left Canada," he said, "although you seem to have rather forgotten your old friends of late. Come in."

"Are you alone?" Kate asked, following him into the little parlour.

"Quite alone. The Cure has gone two miles off on a sick call. And how are the good people of Danton Hall?"

"Very well," Kate answered, taking a seat by the window and looking out at the pale, yellow sunset.

"That is, except yourself, Miss Danton. You have grown thin within the last fortnight. What is the matter?"

"I am not very happy," she said, with a little tremor of the voice; "perhaps that is it."

"Not happy?" repeated Father Francis, with a short, peculiar laugh. "I thought when young ladies married baronets, the height of earthly felicity was attained. It seems rather sordid, this marrying for wealth and title. I hardly thought Kate Danton would do it; but it appears I have made a foolish mistake."

"Thank you," Kate said, very slowly. "I came here to ask you to be cruel to me—to tell me hard truths. You know how to be cruel very well, Father Francis."

"Why do you come to me for hard truths?" said the priest, rather coldly. "You have been deluding yourself all along; why don't you go on? What is the use of telling you the truth? You will do as you like in the end."

"Perhaps not. I have not fallen quite so low as you think. I dare say you despise me, but you can hardly despise me more than I despise myself."

"Then why walk on in the path that leads you downward? Why not stop before it is too late?"

"It is too late now!"

"Stuff and nonsense! That is more of your self-delusion. You, or rather that pride of yours, which has been the great stumbling-block of your life, leads you on in that self-delusion. Too late! It would not be too late if you were before the altar! Better stop now and endure the humiliation than render your own and this man's future life miserable. You will never be happy as Sir Ronald Keith's wife; he will never be happy as your husband. I know how you are trying to delude yourself; I know you are trying to believe you will love him and be happy by-and-by. Don't indulge such sophistry any longer; don't be led away by your own pride and folly."

"Pride and folly!" she echoed indignantly.

"Yes, I repeat it. Your heart, your conscience, must own the truth of what I say, if your lips will not. Would you ever have accepted Sir Ronald Keith if your father had not been about to marry Grace Danton?"

The sudden flush that overspread her face answered for her, though she did not speak. She sat looking straight before her into vacancy, with a hard, despairing look in her dark, deep eyes.

"You know you would not. But your father is going to marry a most excellent and most estimable woman; his affection is not wholly his daughter's any longer; she must stand a little in the shade, and see another reign where she used to be queen. She cannot hold the first place in her father's heart and home; so she is ready to leave that home with the first man who asks her. She does not love him; there is no sympathy or feeling in common between them; they are not even of the same religion; she knows that she will be wretched, and that she will make him wretched too. But what does it all matter? Her pride is to be wounded, her self-love humiliated, and every other consideration must yield to that. She is ready to commit perjury, to swear to love and honour a man who is no more to her than that peasant walking along the road. She is ready to degrade herself and risk her soul by a mercenary marriage sooner than bear that wound to pride!"

"Go on!" Kate said, bitterly; "it is well to have one's heart lacerated sometimes, I suppose. Pray go on."

"I intend to go on. You have been used to queening it all your life—to being flattered, and indulged, and pampered to the top of your bent, and it will do you good. When you are this man's miserable wife, you shall never say Father Francis might have warned me—Father Francis might have saved me. You have ruled here with a ring and a clatter; you have been pleased to dazzle and bewilder the simple people of St. Croix, to see yourself looked up to as a sort of goddess. Your rank, and accomplishments, and beauty—we are talking plain truth now, Miss Danton—all these gifts that God has bestowed upon you so bountifully, you have misused. It doesn't seem so to you, does it? You think you have been very good, very charitable, very condescending. I don't deny that you have done good, that you have been a sort of guardian angel to the poor and the sick; but what was your motive? Was it that which makes thousands of girls, as young, and rich, and handsome as yourself, resign everything for the humble garb and lowly duties of a Sister of Charity? Oh, no! You liked to be idolized, to be venerated, and looked up to as an angel upon earth. That pride of yours which induces you to sell yourself for so many thousand pounds per annum was at the bottom of it all. You want to hold a foremost place in the great battle of life—you want all obstacles to give way before you. It can't be; and your whole life is a failure."

"Go on," Kate reiterated, never stirring, never looking at him, and white as death.

"You have fancied yourself very good, very immaculate, and thanked Heaven in an uplifted sort of way that you were not as other women, false, and mean, and sordid. You wanted to walk through life in a pathway of roses without thorns, to a placid death, and a heritage of glory in Heaven. The trials of common people were not for you; sorrow, and disappointment, and suffering were to pass Miss Danton by. You were so good, and so far up in the clouds, nothing low or base could reach you. Well, it was not to be. You were only clay, after all—the porcelain of human clay, perhaps, but very brittle stuff withal. Trouble did come; the man you had made a sort of idol of, to whom you had given your whole heart, with a love so intense as to be sinful—this man abandons you. The sister you have trusted and been fond of, deceives you, and you find that trouble is something more than a word of two syllables. You have been very great, and noble, and heroic all your life, in theory—how do we find you in practice? Why, drooping like any other lovelorn damsel, pining away without one effort at that greatness and heroism you thought so much of; without one purpose to conquer yourself, without one effort to be resigned to the will of Heaven. You rebel against your father's marriage; everybody else ought to be lonely and unhappy because you are; the world ought to wear crape, and the light of the sun be darkened. But the world laughs and sings much as usual, the sun shines as joyously. Your father's marriage will be an accomplished fact, and our modern heroine says 'yes' to the first man who asks her to marry him in a fit of spleen, because she will be Grace Danton's step-daughter, and must retire a little into the background, and look forward to the common humdrum life ordinary mortals lead. She doesn't ask help where help alone is to be found; so in the hour of her trial there is no light for her in earth or Heaven. Oh, my child! stop and think what you are going to do before it is too late."

"I can't think," she said, in a hollow voice. "I only know I am a miserable, sinful, fallen creature. Help me, Father Francis; tell me what I am to do."

"Do not ask help from me," the young priest said, gravely; "ask it of that compassionate Father who is in Heaven. Oh! my child, the way to that land of peace and rest is the way of the Cross—the only way. There are more thorns than roses under our feet, but we must go on like steadfast soldiers to the end, bearing our cross, and keeping the battle-cry of the brave old Crusaders in our hearts, 'God wills it.' Your trouble has been heavy, my poor child, I don't doubt, but you cannot be exempt from the common lot. I am sorry for you, Heaven knows, and I would make your life a happy one if I could, in spite of all the harsh things I may say. It is because I would not have your whole life miserable that I talk to you like this. Your heart acknowledges the truth of every word I have said; and remember there is but one recipe for real happiness—goodness. Be good and you will be happy. It is a hackneyed precept out of a copy-book," Father Francis said, with a slight smile; "but believe me, it is the only infallible rule. Rouse yourself to a better life, my dear Kate; begin a new and more perfect life, and God will help you. Remember, dear child, 'There is a love that never fails when earthly loves decay.'"

She did not speak. She rose up, cold, and white, and rigid. The priest arose too.

"Are you going?" he asked.

"Yes."

"You are not offended with me for all this plain talk? I like you so much, you know, that I want to see you happy."

"Offended?" she answered, "oh, no! Some day I will thank you; I cannot now."

She opened the door and was gone, flitting along, a lonely figure in the bleak winter twilight. She never paused in her rapid walk until she reached Danton Hall; and then, pale and absorbed, she ran rapidly upstairs, and shut herself into her room. Throwing off her bonnet and mantle, she sat down to her writing-desk at once, and without waiting to think, took up a pen and dashed off a rapid note: