ifeless in a stifling atmosphere, and animals
raise their heads in frightened expectancy, awaiting with nameless
terror the first gust which shall herald the tornado. Since her
father's return from France, she noted that the air of preoccupation
apparent before his departure, was now intensified. While in his
kindness toward her the girl could detect no change, still, there had
come between them a species of estrangement. Seldom was there an
opportunity for them to converse, for Fawkes was up before daylight,
and rarely returned until after the midnight hour had sounded. Often
it was in her heart to ask his confidence--often to hint that she had
overheard his words on that fearful night,--but when she approached
with such intent, a nameless something in his manner held her mute.

The source from which she had hoped would flow sweet waters of comfort
and relief proved dry and arid as summer dust; he to whom in an
outburst of anguish she had confided her grief vanished completely
from her life, as though the earth had engulfed him. True, Garnet
visited her many times after the night she unburdened her heart to
him, but his counsel was ever the same--to wait; at times she even
imagined there was in his tones a hint at justification of her
father's utterance. However, since the day on which Fawkes had
returned, the Jesuit had never passed the threshold of the house. How
to account for this absence she knew not, but in a vague way
associated it with the mystery surrounding her father.

Winter, Elinor had not seen; her wonder at his studious avoidance of
her was matched by the terror with which she anticipated meeting him.
And her first grief?--the forced sacrifice of life's happiness with
the man she loved--had time been kind, and stilled the aching of her
heart? No; for in it the flame burned as brightly as when upon that
day, long ago, his first kiss had breathed upon the glowing spark,
changing it into a tongue of flame which leaped to her very lips.
Where Effingston had gone, she did not know, but her prayers were ever
the same, that in the abyss wherein lay her own fair fame he should
cast his love;--so grief for him would cease to exist.

At last the silence of the room was broken by the man before the fire,
who turned toward her, and, as if but just noting her presence, said,
drowsily: "Daughter, methinks such late hours ill befit thee. It hath
long since struck twelve; thou hast already lost thy beauty sleep."

E