ss Vanhorn formed one of a majestic phalanx of old ladies. "Are you
tired?" she asked.

"Very tired," said Anne, not raising her eyes higher than the stout
waist before her, clad in shining black satin.

"She does look pale," remarked old Mrs. Bannert, sympathizingly.

"Anne is always sleepy at eight or nine, like a baby," replied Miss
Vanhorn, well aware that the dark-eyed Rachel was decidedly a
night-bird, and seldom appeared at breakfast at all; "and she has also a
barbarous way of getting up at dawn. Go to bed, child, if you wish; your
bowl of bread and milk will be ready in the morning." Then, as Anne
turned, she added: "You will be asleep when I come up; I will not
disturb you. Take a good rest." Which Anne interpreted, "I give you that
amount of time: think well before you act." The last respite was
accorded.

But even a minute is precious to the man doomed to death. Anne left the
ball-room almost with a light heart: she had the night. She shut herself
in her room, took off the lace dress, loosened her hair, and sat down by
the window to think. The late moon was rising; a white fog filled the
valley and lay thickly over the river; but she left the sash open--the
cool damp air seemed to soothe her troubled thoughts. For she knew--and
despised herself in the knowledge--that the strongest feeling in her
heart now was jealousy, jealousy of Helen dancing with Heathcote below.
Time passed unheeded; she had not stirred hand or foot when, two hours
later, there was a tap on her door. It was Helen.

"Do not speak," she whispered, entering swiftly and softly, and closing
the door; "the Grand Llama is coming up the stairs. I wanted to see you,
and I knew that if I did not slip in before she passed, I could not get
in without disturbing her. Do not stir; she will stop at your door and
listen."

They stood motionless; Miss Vanhorn's step came along the hall, and, as
Helen had predicted, paused at Anne's door. There was no light within,
and no sound; after a moment it passed on, entered the parlor, and then
the bedroom beyond.

"If Bessmer would only close the bedroom door," whispered Helen, "we
should be quite safe." At this moment the maid did close the door; Helen
gave a sigh of relief. "I never could whisper well," she said. "Only
cat-women whisper nicely. Isabel is a cat-woman. Now when it comes to a
murmur--a faint, clear, sweet murmur, I am an adept. I wonder if Isabel
will subdue her widower? You have been here