, 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 th