ought of putting any of these plans into action, and so allowed the
day to drift by. He arose gladly when the hour for retiring came--that
hour which he had hitherto postponed by every means in his power. He
kissed, as usual, the hand of his hostess, and held that of Felice in
his for a moment; but he did not feel its trembling, or see the timid
trouble in her soft eyes.

His room in the silent and deserted wing was full of fantastic shadows.
He threw himself on a chair beside a window without lighting his lamp.
The rose garden outside was steeped in moonlight; the magnolia bells
gleamed waxen-white against their glossy green leaves; the vines on the
tall trellises threw a soft network of dancing shadows on the
white-shelled walks below; the night air stealing about was loaded with
the perfume of roses and sweet-olive; a mocking-bird sang in an
orange-tree, his mate responding sleepily from her nest in the old
summer-house.

"To-morrow," he murmured, half aloud, "I will go to Grandchamp and give
her the ring she left in the old ballroom."

He looked at it glowing dully in the moonlight; suddenly he lifted his
head, listening. Did a door grind somewhere near on its hinges? He got
up cautiously and looked out. It was not fancy. She was standing full in
view on the small balcony of the room next his own. Her white robes
waved to and fro in the breeze; the pearls on her arms glistened. Her
face, framed in the pale gold of her hair, was turned towards him; a
smile curved her lips; her mysterious eyes seemed to be searching his
through the shadow. He drew back, confused and trembling, and when, a
second later, he looked again, she was gone.

He sat far into the night, his brain whirling, his blood on fire. Who
was she, and what was the mystery hidden in this isolated old plantation
house? His thoughts reverted to the scene in the rose garden, and he
went over and over all its details. He remembered Madame Arnault's
agitation when the window opened and the girl appeared; her evident
discomfiture--of which at the time he had taken no heed, but which came
back to him vividly enough now--at his proposal to visit the ballroom;
her startled recognition of the ring on his finger; her slurring
suggestion of visitors from Grandchamp; the look of terror on
Marcelite's face. What did it all mean? Felice, he was sure, knew
nothing. But here, in an unused portion of the house, which even the
members of the family had never visited, a