Kate Danton, or, Captain Danton's Daughters: A Novel

ROSE DANTON.

Next morning, when the family assembled at breakfast, Captain Danton found a letter on his plate, summoning him in haste to Montreal.

"Business, my dear," he said, answering his eldest daughter's enquiring look; "business of moment."

"Nothing concerning—" She paused, looking startled. "Nothing relating to—"

"To Mr. Richards. No, my dear. How do you ladies purpose spending the day?"

He looked at Grace, who smiled.

"My duties are all arranged," she said. "There is no fear of the day hanging heavily on my hands."

"And you two?"

"I don't know, papa," said Kate listlessly. "I can practise, and read, and write letters, and visit Mr. Richards. I dare-say I will manage."

"Let us have a drive," said Eeny. "We can drive with papa to the station, and then get Thomas to take us everywhere. It's a lovely day, and you have seen nothing of St. Croix and our country roads yet."

Eeny's idea was applauded, and immediately after breakfast the barouche was ordered out, and Thomas was in attendance. Mr. Ogden packed his master's valise, and the trio entered the carriage and were driven off.

"Attend to Mr. Richards as usual, Ogden," said the Captain, as Ogden helped him into his overcoat. "I will be back to-morrow."

Grace stood in the doorway and watched the barouche until the winding drive hid it from view. Then she went back to attend to her housekeeper's duties—to give the necessary orders for dinner, see that the rooms were being properly arranged, and so forth. Everything was going on well; the house was in exquisite order from attic to cellar. Ogden shut up with Mr. Richards, the servants quietly busy, and Danton Hall as still as a church on a week-day. Grace, humming a little tune, took her sewing into the dining-room, where she liked best to sit, and began stitching away industriously. The ticking of a clock on the mantel making its way to twelve, the rattling of the stripped trees in the fresh morning wind, were, for a time, the only sounds outdoor or in. Then wheels rattled rapidly over the graveled drive, coming to the house in a hurry, and Grace looked up in surprise.

"Back so soon," she thought? "They cannot have driven far."

But it was not the handsome new barouche—it was only a shabby little buggy from the station, in which a young lady sat with a pile of trunks and bandboxes.

"Rose!" exclaimed Grace. "I quite forgot she was coming to-day."

A moment later and the front door opened and shut with a bang, flying feet came along the hall, a silk dress rustled stormily, the dining-room door was flung open, and a young lady bounced in and caught Grace in a rapturous hug.

"You darling old thing!" cried a fresh young voice. "I knew I should find you here, even if I hadn't seen you sitting at the window. Aren't you glad to have me home again? And have you got anything to eat? I declare I'm famished!"

Pouring all this out in a breath, with kisses for commas, the young lady released Grace, and flung herself into an arm-chair.

"Ring the bell, Grace, and let us have something to eat. You don't know how hungry I am. Are you alone? Where are the rest?"

Grace, taking this shower of questions with constitutional phlegm, arose, rang the bell, and ordered cakes and cold chicken; the young lady meantime taking off her pretty black velvet turban, with its long feather, flung it in a corner, and sent her shawl, gloves, and fur collar flying after it.

"Now, Rose," expostulated Grace, picking them up, "how often must I tell you the floor is not the proper place to hang your things? I suppose you will be having the whole house in a litter, as usual, now that you have got home."

"Why did you send for me then?" demanded Rose. "I was very well off. I didn't want to come. Never got scolded once since I went away, and I pitched my clothes everywhere! Say, Grace, how do you get on with the new comers?"

"Very well."

Here Babette appeared with the young lady's lunch, and Miss Rose sat down to it promptly.

"What is she like, Kate—handsome?"

"Very!" with emphasis.

"Handsomer than I am?"

"A thousand times handsomer!"

"Bah! I don't believe it! Tall and fair, with light hair and blue eyes. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"Then she is as insipid as milk and water—as insipid as you are, old Madame Grumpy. And papa—he's big and loud-voiced, and red-faced and jolly, I suppose?"

"Miss Rose Danton, be a little more respectful, if you want me to answer your questions."

"Well, but isn't he? And Mr. Richards—who's Mr. Richards?"

"I don't know."

"Isn't he here?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Then why don't you know?"

"Because I have not, like Rose Danton, a bump of inquisitiveness as large as a turnip."

"Now, Grace, don't be hateful. Tell me all you know about Mr. Richards."

"And that is nothing. I have never even seen him. He is an invalid; he keeps his rooms, night and day. His meals are carried upland no one sees him but your father, and sister, and Ogden."

"Mon Dieu!" cried Rose, opening her eyes very wide. "A mystery under our very noses! What can it mean? There's something wrong somewhere, isn't there?"

"I don't know anything about it; it is none of my business, and I never interfere in other people's."

"You dear old Granny Grumpy! And now that I've had enough to eat, why don't you ask me about my visit to Ottawa, and what kind of time I had?"

"Because I really don't care anything about it. However, I trust you enjoyed yourself."

"Enjoyed myself!" shrilly cried Rose. "It was like being in paradise! I never had such a splendid, charming, delightful time since I was born! I never was so sorry for anything as for leaving."

"Really!"

"Oh, Grace! it was beautiful—so gay, so much company; and I do love company! A ball to-night, a concert to-morrow, a sociable next evening, the theatre, dinner-parties, matinees, morning calls, shopping and receptions! Oh," cried Rose, rapturously, "it was glorious!"

"Dear me!" said Grace, stitching away like a sewing-machine; "it must have been a great trial to leave."

"It was. But I am going back. Dear Ottawa! Charming Ottawa! I was excessively happy in Ottawa!"

She laid hold of a kitten slumbering peacefully on a rug as she spoke, and went waltzing around the room, whistling a lively tune. Grace looked at her, tried to repress a smile, failed, and continued her work. She was very, very pretty, this second daughter of Captain Danton, and quite unlike the other two. She was of medium height, but so plump and rounded as to look less tall than she really was. Her profuse hair, of dark, chestnut brown, hung in thick curls to her waist; her complexion was dark, cheeks round and red as apples, her forehead low, her nose perfection, her teeth like pearls, her eyes small, bright and hazel. Very pretty, very sparkling, very piquant, and a flirt from her cradle.

"Did you learn that new accomplishment in Ottawa, pray?" asked Grace.

"What new accomplishment?"

"Whistling."

"Yes, Jules taught me."

"Who is Jules?"

"Jules La Touche—the son of the house—handsome as an angel, and my devoted slave."

"Indeed! Has he taught you anything else?"

"Only to love him and to smoke cigarettes."

"Smoke!" exclaimed Grace, horrified.

"Yes, m'amour! I have a whole package in my trunk. If you mend my stockings I will let you have some. I could not exist without cigarettes now."

"I shall have to mend your stockings in any case. As to the cigarettes, permit me to decline. What will your papa say to such goings on?"

"He will be charmed, no doubt. If he isn't, he ought to. Just fancy when he is sitting alone of an evening over his meerschaum, what nice, sociable smokes we can have together. Jules and I used to smoke together by the hour. My darling Jules! how I long to go back to Ottawa and you once more! Grace!" dropping the cat and whirling up to her, "would you like to hear a secret?"

"Not particularly; what is it?"

"You won't tell—will you?"

"I don't know; I must hear it first."

"It's a great secret; I wouldn't tell anybody but you; and not you, unless you promise profoundest silence."

"I make no promises blindly. Tell me or not, just as you please. I don't think much of your secrets, anyhow."

"Don't you?" said Rose, nettled; "look here, then."

She held out her left hand. On the third finger shone a shimmering opal ring.

"Well?" said Grace.

"Well!" said Rose, triumphantly. "Jules gave me that; that is my engagement ring."

Grace sat and looked at her aghast.

"No!" she said; "you don't mean it, Rose?"

"I do mean it. I am engaged to Jules La Touche, and we are going to be married in a year. That is my secret, and if you betray me I will never forgive you."

"And you are quite serious?"

"Perfectly serious, chère grogneuse."

"Do Monsieur and Madame La Touche know?"

"Certainly not. Mon Dieu! We are too young. Jules is only twenty, and I eighteen. We must wait; but I love him to distraction, and he adores me! Tra-la-la!"

She seized the cat once more, and went whirling round the room.

Her waltz was suddenly interrupted.

A gentleman, young, tall, and stately, stood, hat in hand, in the doorway, regarding her.

"Don't let me intrude," said the gentleman, politely advancing. "Don't let me interrupt anybody, I beg!"

Grace arose, smiling.

"Rose, let me present my brother, Doctor Danton! Frank, Miss Rose Danton!"

Miss Rose dropped the kitten and her eyes, and made an elaborate curtsey.

"My entrance spoiled a very pretty tableau," said the Doctor, "and disappointed pussy, I am afraid. Pray, continue your waltz, Miss Rose, and don't mind me."

"I don't," said Rose, carelessly, "my waltz was done, and I have to dress."

She ran out of the room, but put her head in again directly.

"Grace!"

"Yes!"

"Will you come and curl my hair by-and-by?"

"No, I haven't time."

"What shall I do, then? Babette tears it out by the roots."

"I am not busy," said the Doctor, blandly. "I haven't much experience in curling young ladies' hair, but I am very willing to learn."

"You are very kind," said his sister, "but we can dispense with your services. You might get Eunice, I dare say, Rose; she has nothing else to do."

"Who's Eunice?"

"Your sister's maid; you can ring for her; she understands hair-dressing better than Babette."

Rose ran up stairs. At the front window of the upper hall stood Ogden and Eunice.

Rose nodded familiarly to the valet, and turned to the girl.

"Are you Eunice?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Are you busy?"

"No, Miss."

"Then come into my room, please, and comb my hair."

Eunice followed the young lady, and Ogden returned to the mysterious regions occupied by Mr. Richards.

Once more the house was still; its one disturbing element was having her hair curled; and Grace and her brother talked in peace below stairs.

It was past luncheon-hour when the barouche rolled up to the door. Kate, all aglow from her drive in the frosty air, stopped her laughing chat with pale Eeny at the sight which met her eyes. Standing on the portico steps, playing with a large dog Kate had reason to know, and flirting—it looked like flirting—with the dog's master, stood a radiant vision, a rounded girlish figure, arrayed in bright maize-colored merino, elaborately trimmed with black lace and velvet, the perfect shoulders and arms bare, the cheeks like blush roses, the eyes sparkling as stars, and the golden-brown hair, freshly curled, falling to her waist.

"Oh, how beautiful!" Kate cried, under her breath.

The next moment, Eeny ran up the steps, and favoured this vision of youthful bloom with a kiss, while Kate followed more decorously.

"How do, Eeny?" said Rose. "Kate!"

She held out both her hands. Kate caught her in a sort of rapture in her arms.

"My sister!" she cried. "My darling Rose!"

And then she stopped, for Doctor Danton was looking on with a preternatural gravity that provoked her.

"When did you come, Rose?" asked Eeny.

"Two hours ago. Have you had a pleasant drive, Kate?"

"Very, and I am hungry after it. We have kept Miss Grace waiting, I am afraid; isn't it past luncheon-time? Come to my room with me, Rose. Are you going, Doctor? Won't you stay to luncheon?"

"Some other time. Good morning, ladies. Come, Tiger."

He sauntered down the avenue, whistling, and the three sisters turned into the house.

"Very agreeable!" said Rose. "Grace's brother; and rather handsome."

"Handsome!" exclaimed Kate. "He is not handsome, my pretty sister." She took her in her arms again, and kissed her fondly. "My pretty sister! how much I am going to love you!"

Rose submitted to be kissed with a good grace, but with a little envious pang at her vain, coquettish heart, to see how much more beautiful her superb sister was than herself. She nestled luxuriously in an arm-chair, while Eunice dressed her young mistress, chattering away in French like a magpie. They descended together to luncheon; pale Eeny was totally eclipsed by brilliant Rose, and all the afternoon they spent together over the piano, and sauntering through the grounds.

"Retribution, Eeny," said Grace, kissing Eeny's pale cheek. "You forgot me for this dazzling Kate, and now you are nowhere. You must come back to Grace again."

"There is nobody like Grace," said Eeny, nestling close. "But Kate and Rose won't be always like this. 'Love me little, love me long.' Wait until Kate finds out what Rose is made of."

But despite Eeny's prophecy, the two sisters got on remarkably well together.

Captain Danton did not return next day, according to promise, so they were thrown entirely upon one another. Instead, there came a note from Montreal, which told them that business would detain him in that city for nearly a fortnight longer. "When I do return," ended the note, "I will fetch an old friend to see Kate."

"Who can it be?" wondered Kate. "There is no old friend of mine that I am aware of in Montreal. Papa likes to be mysterious."

"Yes," said Rose; "I should think so, when we have a mystery in the very house."

"What mystery?"

"Mr. Richards, of course. He's a mystery worse than anything in the 'Mysteries of Udolpho.' Why can nobody get to see him but that soft-stepping, oily-tongued little weasel, Ogden?"

Kate looked at the pretty sister she loved so well, with the coldest glances she had ever given her.

"Mr. Richards is an invalid; he is unable to see any one, or quit his room. What mystery is there in that?"

"There's a mystery somewhere," said Rose, sagaciously. "Who is Mr. Richards?"

"A friend of papa's—and poor. Don't ask so many questions, Rose. I have nothing more to say on the subject."

"Then I must find out for myself—that is all," thought Rose; "and I will, too, before long, in spite of half a dozen Ogdens."

Rose tried with a zeal and perseverance worthy a better cause, and most signally failed. Mr. Richards was invisible. His meals went up daily. Ogden and Kate visited him daily, but the baize door was always locked, and Ogden and Kate, on the subject, were dumb. Kate visited the invalid at all hours, by night and by day. Ogden rarely left him except when Miss Danton was there, and then he took a little airing in the garden. Rose's room was near the corridor leading to the green baize room; and often awaking "in the dead waste and middle of the night," she would steal to that mysterious room to listen. But nothing was ever to be heard, nothing ever to be seen—the mystery was fathomless. She would wander outside at all hours, under Mr. Richards' window; and looking up, wonder how he endured his prison, or what he could possibly be about—if those dark curtains were never raised and he never looked at the outer world. Once or twice a face had appeared, but it was always the keen, thin face of Mr. Ogden; and Rose's curiosity, growing by what it fed on, began to get insupportable.

"What can it mean, Grace?" she would say to the housekeeper, to whom she had a fashion, despite no end of snubbing, of confiding her secret troubles. "There's something wrong; where there's secrecy, there's guilt—I've always heard that."

"Don't jump at conclusions, Miss Rose, and don't trouble yourself about Mr. Richards; it is no affair of yours."

"But I can't help troubling myself. What business have papa, and Kate, and that nasty Ogden, to have a secret between them and I not know it? I feel insulted, and I'll have revenge. I never mean to stop till I ferret out the mystery. I have the strongest conviction I was born to be a member of the detective police, and one of these days the mystery of Mr. Richards will be a mystery no more."

Grace had her own suspicions, but Grace was famous for minding her own business, and kept her suspicions to herself. Rose's man[oe]uvring amused her, and she let her go on. Every strategy the young lady could conceive was brought to bear, and every stratagem was skilfully baffled.

"Why don't you have Doctor Danton to see Mr. Richards, Kate?" she said to her sister, one evening, meeting her coming out of Mr. Richards' room. "I should think he was skilful."

"Very likely," said Kate, with an air of reserve, "but Mr. Richards does not require medical care."

"Oh, he is not very bad, then? You should bring him down stairs in that case; a little lively society—mine, for instance—might do him good."

Kate's dark eyes flashed impatiently.

"Rose," she said, sharply, "how often must I tell you Mr. Richards is hypochondriacal and will not quit his room? Cease to talk on the subject. Mr. Richards will not come down-stairs."

She swept past—majestic and a little displeased. Rose shrugged her plump shoulders and ran down stairs, for Doctor Danton was coming up the avenue, and Rose, of late, had divided her attention pretty equally between playing detective amateur and flirting with Doctor Danton. But there was a visitor for Rose in the drawing-room; and the young Doctor, entering the dining-room, found his sister alone, looking dreamily out at the starry twilight.

"Grace," he said, "I come to say good-bye; I am going to Montreal."

Grace looked round at him with a sudden air of relief.

"Oh, Frank! I am glad. When are you going?"

Doctor Frank stared at her an instant in silence, and then hooked a footstool towards him with his cane.

"Well, upon my word, for a sister who has not seen me for six years, that is affectionate. You're glad I'm going, are you?"

"You know what I mean; it is about Rose Danton."

"Well, what about Miss Rose?"

"I am glad you are going to get out of her way. I am glad she will have no chance to make a fool of you. I am glad you will have no time to fall in love with her."

"My pretty Rose! My dark-eyed darling! Grace, you are heartless."

Grace looked at him, but his face was in shadow, and the tone of his voice told nothing.

"I don't know whether you are serious or not," she said. "For your own sake, I hope you are not. Rose has been flirting with you, but I thought you had penetration enough to see through her. I hope, I trust, Frank, you have not allowed yourself to think seriously of her."

"Why not?" said Doctor Danton; "she is very pretty, she has charming ways, we are of the same blood, I should like to be married. It is very nice to be married, I think. Why should I not think seriously of her?"

"Because you might as well fall in love with the moon, and hope to win it."

"Do you mean she would not have me?"

"Yes."

"Trying, that. But why? Her conduct is encouraging. I thought she was in love with me."

Again Grace looked at him, puzzled; again his face was in shadow, and his inscrutable voice baffled her.

"I do not believe you ever thought any such thing. The girl is a coquette born. She would flirt with Ogden, for the mere pleasure of flirting. She flirts with you because there is no one else."

"Trying!" repeated the Doctor. "Very! And you really think there is no use in my proposing—you really think she will not marry me?"

"I really think so."

"And why? Don't break my heart without a reason. Is it because I am poor?"

"Because you are poor, and not handsome enough, or dashing enough for the vainest, shallowest little flirt that ever made fools of men. Is that plain enough?"

"That's remarkably plain, and I am very much obliged to you. My darling Rose! But hush! A silk dress rustles—here she comes!"

The door opened; it was Rose, but not alone; both sisters were with her, and Doctor Danton arose at once to make his adieus.

"I depart to-morrow for Montreal," he said. "Farewell, Miss Danton."

"Good-bye," letting the tips of her fingers touch his. "Bon voyage."

She walked away to the window, cold indifference in every line of her proud face.

He held out his hand to Rose, glancing sideways at his sister.

"Adieu, Miss Rose," he said; "I shall never forget the pleasant hours I have passed at Danton Hall."

He pressed the little plump hand, and Rose's rosy cheeks took a deeper dye; but she only said, "Good-bye," and walked away to the piano, and played a waltz.

Eeny was the only one who expressed regret, and gave his hand a friendly shake.

"I am sorry you are going," she said. "Come back soon, Doctor Frank."

Doctor Frank looked as if he would like to kiss her; but Kate was there, queenly and majestic, and such an impropriety was not to be thought of.

It was Kate, however, who spoke to him last, as he left the room.

"Take good bye from me to Tiger," she said. "I shall be glad when Tiger comes back to St. Croix."

"'Love me, love my dog,'" quoted Rose. "How about Tiger's master, Kate?"

"I shall always be pleased to see Doctor Danton," said Kate, with supreme indifference. "Sing me a twilight song, Rose."

Rose sang "Kathleen Mavourneen" in a sweet contralto voice.

Kate stood listening to the exquisite words and air, watching Doctor Danton's full figure fading out in the November gloom, and thinking of some one she loved far away.

SEEING A GHOST.

Three days after the departure of Grace's brother, Captain Danton returned to the Hall. Strange to say, the young Doctor had been missed in these three days by the four Misses Danton. Even the stately Kate, who would have gone to the block sooner than have owned it, missed his genial presence, his pleasant laugh, and ever interesting conversation; Rose missed her flirtee, and gaped wearily the slow hours away that had flown coquetting with him; Eeny missed the pocketfuls of chocolate, bon-bons, and the story books new from Montreal; and Grace missed him most of all. But Eeny was the only one honest enough to own it, and she declared the house was as lonely as a dungeon since Doctor Frank had gone away.

"One would think you had fallen in love with him, Eeny," said Rose.

"No," retorted Eeny; "I leave that for you. But he was nice; I liked him, and I wish he would come back. Don't you, Kate?"

"I don't care, particularly," said Kate. "I wish papa would come."

"And bring that unknown friend of yours. I say, Kate," said Rose mischievously, "they say you're engaged—perhaps it's your fiancé."

Up over Kate's pearly face the hot blood flew, and she turned hastily to the nearest window.

"Too late, ma soeur," said Rose, her eyes dancing. "You blush beautifully. Won't I have a look at him when he comes, the conquering hero, who can win our queenly Kate's heart."

"Rose, hush!" cried Kate, yet not displeased, and with that roseate light in her face still.

Rose came over, and put her arm around her waist coaxingly.

"Tell me about him, Kate. Is he handsome?"

"Who? Reginald? Of course he is handsome."

"I want to see him dreadfully! Have you his picture? Won't you show it me?"

There was a slender gold chain round Kate's neck, which she wore night and day. A locket was attached, and her hand pressed it now, but she did not take it out.

"Some other time, my pet," she said, kissing Rose. "Come, let us go for a ride."

Rose was an accomplished horsewoman, and never looked so well as in a side-saddle. She owned a spirited black mare, which she called Regina, and she had ridden out every day with Doctor Frank while that gentleman was in St. Croix. Kate rode well, too. A fleet-footed little pony, named Arab, had been trained for her use, and the sisters galloped over the country together daily.

Eeny and Grace, both mortally afraid of horse-flesh, never rode.

Between music, books, and riding, the three days' interval passed pleasantly enough.

Rose was an inveterate novel reader, and the hours Kate spent shut up with that unfathomable mystery, Mr. Richards, her younger sister passed absorbed in the last new novel.

They had visitors too—the Ponsonbys, the Landrys, the Le Favres, and everybody of note in the neighbourhood called. Father Francis, M. le Curé, the Reverend Augustus Clare, the Episcopal incumbent of St. Croix, an aristocratic young Englishman, came to see them in the evening to hear Miss Danton sing, and to play backgammon.

The Reverend Augustus, who was slim, and fair, and had face and hands like a pretty girl, was very much impressed with the majestic daughter of Captain Danton, who sang so magnificently, and looked at him with eyes like blue stars.

The day that brought her father home had been long and dull. There had been no callers, and they had not gone out. A cold north wind had shrieked around the house all day, rattling the windows, and tearing frantically through the gaunt arms of the stripped trees. The sky was like lead, the river black and turbid. As the afternoon wore on, great flakes of snow came fluttering through the opaque air, slowly at first, then faster, till all was blind, fluttering whiteness, and the black earth was hidden.

Kate stood by the dining-room window watching the fast-falling snow. It had been a long day to her—a long, weary, aimless day. She had tried to read, to play, to sing, to work; and failed in all. She had visited Mr. Richards; she had wandered, in a lost sort of way, from room to room; she had lain listlessly on sofas, and tried to sleep, all in vain. The demon of ennui had taken possession of her; and now, at the end of every resource, she stood looking drearily out at the wintry scene. She was dressed for the evening, and looked like a picture, buttoned up in that black velvet jacket, its rich darkness such a foil to her fair face and shining golden hair. Grace was her only companion—Grace sitting serenely braiding an apron for herself, Rose was fathoms deep in "Les Miserables," and Eeny was drumming on the piano in the drawing-room. There had been a long silence, but presently Grace looked up from her work, and spoke.

"This wintry scene is new to you, Miss Danton. You don't have such wild snow storms in England?"

Kate glanced round, a little surprised.

It was very rarely indeed her father's housekeeper voluntarily addressed her.

"No," she said, "not like this; but I like it. We ought to have sleighing to-morrow, if it continues."

"Probably. We do not often have sleighing, though, in November."

There was another pause.

Kate yawned behind her white hand.

"I wish Father Francis would come up," she said wearily. "He is the only person in St. Croix worth talking to."

The dark, short November afternoon was deepening with snowy night, when through the ghostly twilight the buggy from the station whirled up to the door, and two gentlemen alighted. Great-coats, with upturned collars, and hats pulled down, disguised both, but Kate recognized her father, the taller and stouter, with a cry of delight.

"Papa!" she exclaimed; and ran out of the room to meet him. He was just entering, his jovial laugh ringing through the house as he shook the snow off, and caught her in his wet arms.

"Glad to be home again, Kate! You don't mind a cold kiss, do you? Let me present an old friend whom you don't expect, I'll wager."

The gentleman behind him came forward. A gentleman neither very young, nor very handsome, nor very tall; at once plain-looking and proud-looking. The pale twilight was bright enough for Kate to recognize him as he took off his hat.

"Sir Ronald Keith!" she cried, intense surprise in every line of her face; "why, who would have thought of seeing you in Canada?"

She held out her hand frankly, but there was a marked air of restraint in Sir Ronald's manner as he touched it and dropped it again.

"I thought it would be an astonisher," said her father; "how are Grace and Eeny?"

"Very well."

"And Rose? Has Rose got home?"

"Yes, papa."

At this juncture Ogden appeared, and his master turned to him.

"Ogden, see that Sir Ronald's luggage is taken to his room, and then hold yourself in readiness to attend him. This way, Sir Ronald, there is just time to dress for dinner, and no more."

He led his visitor to the bedroom regions, and Kate returned to the drawing-room. Rose was there dressed beautifully, and with flowers in her hair, and all curiosity to hear who their visitor was. There was a heightened colour in Kate's face and an altered expression in her eyes that puzzled Grace.

"He is Sir Ronald Keith," she said, in reply to Rose. "I have known him for years."

"Sir Ronald; knight or baronet?"

"Baronet, of course," Kate said, coldly; "and Scotch. Don't get into a gale, Rose; you won't care about him; he is neither young nor handsome."

"Is he unmarried?"

"Yes."

"And rich?"

"His income is eight thousand a year."

"Mon Dieu! A baronet and eight thousand a year! Kate, I am going to make a dead set at him. Lady Keith—Lady Rose Keith; that sounds remarkably well, doesn't it? I always thought I should like to be 'my lady.' Grace, how do I look?"

Kate sat down to the piano, and drowned Rose's words in a storm of music. Rose looked at her with pursed-up lips.

"Kate is in one of her high and mighty moods," she thought. "I don't pretend to understand her. If she is engaged in England, what difference can it make to her whether I flirt with this Scotch baronet or not? What do I care for her airs? I'll flirt if I please."

She sat still, twisting her glossy ringlets round her fingers, while Kate played on with that unsmiling face. Half an hour, and the dinner-bell rang. Ten minutes after, Captain Danton and his guest stood before them.

For a moment Rose did not see him; her father's large proportions, as he took her in his arms and kissed her, overshadowed every one else.

"How my little Rose has grown!" the Captain said looking at her fondly; "as plump as a partridge and as Rosy as her name. Sir Ronald—my daughter Rose."

Rose bowed with finished grace, thinking, with a profound sense of disappointment:

"What an ugly little man!"

Then it was Eeny's turn, and presently they were all seated at the table—the baronet at Kate's right hand, talking to her of Old England, and of by-gone days, and of people the rest knew nothing about. Captain Danton gallantly devoted himself to the other three, and told them he had brought them all presents from Montreal.

"Oh, papa, have you though!" cried Rose. "I dearly love presents; what have you brought me?"

"Wait until after dinner, little curiosity," said her father. "Grace, whom do you think I met in Montreal?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Why, that brother of yours. I was loitering along the Champ de Mars, when who should step up but Doctor Frank. Wasn't I astonished! I asked what brought him there, and he told me he found St. Croix so slow he couldn't stand it any longer. Complimentary to you, young ladies."

Kate gave Rose a mischievous look, and Rose bit her lip and tossed back her auburn curls.

"I dare say St. Croix and its inhabitants can survive the loss," she said. "Papa, the next time you go to Montreal I want you to take me. It's a long time since I have been there."

"I thought you were going back to Ottawa," said Grace. "You seem to have forgotten all about it."

Rose gave her an alarmed look; and finding a gap in the tête-à-tête between her sister and Sir Ronald, struck smilingly in. He was small and he was homely, but he was a baronet and worth eight thousand a year, and Rose brought all the battery of her charms to bear. In vain. She might as well have tried to fascinate one of the gnarled old tamaracks out-of-doors. Sir Ronald was utterly insensible to her brightest smiles and glances, to her rosiest blushes and most honeyed words. He listened politely, he answered courteously; but he was no more fascinated by Captain Danton's second daughter than he was by Captain Danton's housekeeper.

Rose was disgusted, and retreated to a corner with a book, and sulked. Grace, Kate, and Eeny, who all saw through the little game, were exceedingly amused.

"I told you it was of no use, Rose," said Kate, in a whisper, pausing at the corner. "Do you always read with the book upside down? Sir Ronald is made of flint, where pretty girls are concerned. You won't be 'my lady' this time."

"Sir Ronald is a stupid stick!" retorted Rose. "I wouldn't marry him if he were a duke instead of a baronet. One couldn't expect anything better from a Scotchman, though."

It was the first experience Kate had had of Rose's temper. She drew back now, troubled.

"I hope we will not be troubled with him long!" continued Rose, spitefully. "The place was stupid enough before, but it will be worse with that sulky Scotchman prowling about. I tried to be civil to him this evening. I shall never try again."

With which Miss Rose closed her lips, and relapsed into her book, supremely indifferent to her sister's heightened colour and flashing eyes. She turned away in silence, and fifteen minutes after, Rose got up and left the room, without saving good-night to any one.

Rose kept her word. From that evening she was never civil to the Scotch baronet, and took every occasion to snub him. But her incivility was as completely thrown away as her charms had been. It is doubtful whether Sir Ronald ever knew he was snubbed; and Kate, seeing it, smiled to herself, and was friends with offended Rose once more. She and the baronet were on the best of terms; he was always willing to talk to her, always ready to be her escort when she walked or rode, always on hand to turn her music and listen entranced to her singing. If it was not a flirtation, it was something very like it, and Rose was nowhere. She looked on with indignant eyes, and revenged herself to the best of her power by flirting in her turn with the Reverend Augustus Clare.

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

"My brother is very much obliged to you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Richards."

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

"Where there is secrecy there is guilt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Everybody is well, papa."

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

"Yes, papa."

"Where is Reginald?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rose gave another shrug.

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

"Yes, my dear."

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

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

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

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

"Oh, papa! that would be delightful."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not a word."

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

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

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

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

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

"Seen what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Restored and asleep."

"Does she really think she saw a ghost?"

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

"Whose ghost was it?"

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

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

"Grace! What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ROSE'S ADVENTURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Agnes!"

The dark eyes lifted inquiringly.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

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

"No; dead these many years."