t he did not
speak to her.

Nor did he once address her during the evening meal, preferring to honor
Mrs. Tanberry with his conversation, to that diplomatic lady's secret
anger, but outward amusement. She cheerfully neglected to answer him
at times, having not the slightest awe of him, and turned to the girl
instead; indeed, she was only prevented from rating him soundly at his
own table by the fear that she might make the situation more difficult
for her young charge. As soon as it was possible, she made her escape
with Miss Betty, and they drove away in the twilight to pay visits of
duty, leaving Mr. Carewe frowning at his coffee on the veranda.

When they came home, three hours later, Miss Betty noticed that a fringe
of illumination bordered each of the heavily curtained windows in the
cupola, and she uttered an exclamation, for she had never known that
room to be lighted.

"Look!" she cried, touching Mrs. Tanberry's arm, as the horses trotted
through the gates under a drizzle of rain, "I thought the room in the
cupola was empty. It's always locked, and when I came from St. Mary's he
told me that old furniture was stored there."

Mrs. Tanberry was grateful for the darkness. "He may have gone there to
read," she answered, in a queer voice. "Let us go quietly to bed, child,
so as not to disturb him."

Betty had as little desire to disturb her father as she had to see him;
therefore she obeyed her friend's injunction, and went to her room on
tip-toe. The house was very silent as she lit the candles on her bureau.
Outside, the gentle drizzle and the soothing tinkle from the eaves were
the only sounds; within, there was but the faint rustle of garments from
Mrs. Tanberry's room. Presently the latter ceased to be heard, and a
wooden moan of protest from the four-poster upon which the good lady
reposed, announced that she had drawn the curtains and wooed the rulers
of Nod.

Although it was one of those nights of which they say, "It is a good
night to sleep," Miss Betty was not drowsy. She had half-unfastened one
small sandal, but she tied the ribbons again, and seated herself by the
open window. The ledge and casement framed a dim oblong of thin light
from the candles behind her, a lonely lustre, which crossed the
veranda to melt shapelessly into darkness on the soggy lawn. She felt a
melancholy in the softly falling rain and wet, black foliage that chimed
with the sadness of her own spirit. The night suited her very