he, and say it is my Scotch blood that makes me
superstitious--but--but--" she paused a moment, and then said in a
whisper, "I believe Regnard Cheverny's soul has got into Gaston
Cheverny's body."

Francezka was always more superstitious than she was willing to allow,
but this wildness of delusion staggered me, especially in a woman of
her otherwise strong sense.

I hesitated a little before answering her. I saw in her bright and
restless eyes, and in the varying color upon her cheek, that she was
speaking under the influence of powerful emotion.

"Madame," said I, "I must speak plainly. It amazes me that a woman of
your excellent understanding should stoop to the folly of what you
have just said."

Francezka showed no anger. She only replied:

"It is not so idle as it sounds. I mean, that although Gaston himself
has returned to me, he seems to have Regnard's nature. Remember, I
knew them both well. Do you recollect how the old dog, Bold, saw the
change in Gaston? Well, one day about a month after you left Capello,
the dog, which had shown a steady dislike to Gaston, flew at him--flew
at his master whom he had loved so well. Some hours after, I went to
my husband--he was standing on the terrace--and said:

"'You must have worried the dog, I never knew him to attack any one
before.' 'He will not attack any one again,' replied Gaston. 'I
thought it best that he should be put out of the way, and to spare you
the knowledge I had the dog drowned an hour ago.' I can not express to
you, Babache, my feelings at this. I do not know what I did, or what I
said, but that, without hat or mantle, I rushed to the lake, below the
Italian garden--I seemed to know by instinct that it was there they
would drown him. Some stablemen were then dragging the poor drowned
creature--my dog--my Bold--out of the water. They were frightened at
what they had done, when they saw me. I retained my senses enough to
say nothing before those men,--I, Francezka Capello, unable to reprove
mere stablemen for the destruction of a creature dear to me for
years!

"I fled to the Italian garden; I was in an agony of terror, as well as
grief. I repeated to myself, over and over again, 'It was but a
worn-out old dog--Gaston did it in mercy to me--' I tried, amid all my
distress, to reason with myself--to present Gaston's cause. 'It is a
trifle,' I said, but some inward voice told me it was no trifle, but a
matter of the greatest moment to me. Suppose he s