rs 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