ourteously drew her towards the staircase: "Oh, my brother Richard,
How!"

But the first strain and suspense were now over for the family, and it
is probable that never had they felt such relief as when they sat down
behind closed doors in their own rooms for a short respite, while the
Indian girl was closeted alone with Mackenzie and a trusted maid, in
what she called her wigwam.

CHAPTER V. AN AWKWARD HALF-HOUR

It is just as well, perhaps, that the matter had become notorious.
Otherwise the Armours had lived in that unpleasant condition of being
constantly "discovered." It was simply a case of aiming at absolute
secrecy, which had been frustrated by Frank himself, or bold and
unembarrassed acknowledgment and an attempt to carry things off with
a high hand. The latter course was the only one possible. It had
originally been Richard's idea, appropriated by General Armour, and
accepted by Mrs. Armour and Marion with what grace was possible. The
publication of the event prepared their friends, and precluded the
necessity for reserve. What the friends did not know was whether they
ought or ought not to commiserate the Armours. It was a difficult
position. A death, an accident, a lost reputation, would have been
easy to them; concerning these there could be no doubt. But an Indian
daughter-in-law, a person in moccasins, was scarcely a thing to be
congratulated upon; and yet sympathy and consolation might be much
misplaced; no one could tell how the Armours would take it. For even
their closest acquaintances knew what kind of delicate hauteur was
possible to them. Even the "'centric" Richard, who visited the cottages
of the poor, carrying soup and luxuries of many kinds, accompanying them
with the most wholesome advice a single man ever gave to families and
the heads of families, whose laugh was so cheery and spontaneous,--and
face so uncommonly grave and sad at times,--had a faculty for manner.
With astonishing suddenness he could raise insurmountable barriers; and
people, not of his order, who occasionally presumed on his simplicity of
life and habits, found themselves put distinctly ill at ease by a quiet,
curious look in his eye. No man was ever more the recluse and at the
same time the man of the world. He had had his bitter little comedy of
life, but it was different from that of his brother Frank. It was buried
very deep; not one of his family knew of it: Edward Lambert, and one
or two others who had good re