y own mind with the leaden skies, the cold
winds, the bleak rains and biting frosts of March. She was to be with us
on the seventh, and the whole of the day was like a tempest; the wind
blew, the rain fell. We could hear the rustling of the great boughs; the
wind rolled down the great avenues and shook the window frames.

My mother's room that day was the brightest in the house; cheery fire in
the silver grate and the profusion of flowers made it so cheerful. How
many times during that day both my father and mother said:

"What an uncomfortable journey Miss Reinhart will have!"

She ordered a good fire to be lighted in her bedroom and tea to be
prepared for her. The carriage was sent to the station with plenty of
wraps, and every care was taken of the strange lady. The wind was
rolling like thunder through the great avenues, the tall trees bent
under the fury of the blast; when the sound ceased I heard the carriage
wheels, and going to my mother, who was reading, I said: "She has come."

My mother took my hand silently. Why did we both look at each other?
What curious foreboding came to us both, that made us cling to each
other? Poor mother! poor child!

Some time afterward my father came in and said:

"Will you see Miss Reinhart to-night, Beatrice, darling?"

She looked flushed and tired, but she answered, laughing quietly at her
own nervousness:

"I suppose I shall not sleep unless I do see her, Roland. Yes, when she
has taken her tea and had time to make herself quite comfortable, I
shall be pleased to see her."

Why did we mother and child, cling to each other as though some terrible
danger were overtaking us? It struck me that there was some little
delay, and my father remained with the strange lady.

We had talked about her and wondered what she would be like. I had
always pictured her as a girl many years older than myself, but still a
girl, with a certain consciousness and shyness about her. I had expected
that she would stand in awe of my mother at first, and be, perhaps,
impressed with the grandeur of Tayne Abbey. When the time came to say
that Miss Reinhart would be glad to see Lady Tayne, and Sir Roland
brought the strange lady into the room, I was silently in utter amaze.
This was no school-girl, no half-conscious, half-shy governess,
impressed and awe-struck. There floated, rather than walked, into the
room a beautiful woman, with dark draperies falling gracefully around
her, a beautiful, self-p