le 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 lo