arities is her
fondness for walking about the room over yours at night. Now, if she
likes to do this, I know of no reason why she should not do it. It is a
little whim that does no harm to anybody; and as the house and
everything in it are her own, she may surely please herself in such a
trifle."

"But what is there in the room that she should prefer it to any other in
the house for walking in by night?"

"What--is--there--in the room?" said the old lady, staring at me across
the table with a strange, frightened look in her eyes. "What a curious
question! The room is a common room, of course, with nothing in it out
of the ordinary way; only, as I said before, it happens to be Lady
Chillington's whim to walk there. So, if you hear the noise again, you
will know how to account for it, and will have too much good sense to
feel in the least afraid."

I had a half consciousness that Dance was prevaricating with me in this
matter, or hiding something from me; but I was obliged to accept her
version as the correct one, especially as I saw that any further
questioning would be of no avail.

I did not see Lady Chillington that day. She was reported to be unwell,
and kept her own rooms.

About noon a message came from Sister Agnes that she would like to see
me in her room. When I entered she was standing by a square oak table,
resting one hand on it while the other was pressed to her heart. Her
face was very pale, but her dark eyes beamed on me with a veiled
tenderness that I could not misinterpret.

"Good-morrow, Miss Hope," she said, offering her white slender hand for
my acceptance. "I fear that you will find Deepley Walls even duller than
Park Hill Seminary."

Her tone was cold and constrained. I looked up earnestly into her face.
Her lips began to quiver painfully. "Child! child! you must not look at
me in that way," she cried.

Instinct whispered something in my ear. "You are the lady who came and
kissed me when I was asleep!" I exclaimed.

Her brow contracted for a moment as if she were in pain. A hectic spot
came out suddenly on either cheek, and vanished almost as swiftly. "Yes,
it was I who came to your room last night," she said. "You are not vexed
with me for doing so?"

"On the contrary, I love you for it."

Her smile, the sweetest I ever saw, beamed out at this. Gently she
stroked my hair. "You looked so forlorn and weary last night," she said,
"that after I got to bed I could not help thinking about