t the one of which the first
girl's had reminded me. Here was the lady of the sylvan incident sitting
bodily before me, "in her habit as she lived."

Evidently enough the two were sisters.

With a nebulous kind of apprehension that I might be recognized as the
mute inglorious hero of an adventure which had in my consciousness and
conscience something of the character of eavesdropping, I allowed myself
only a hasty cup of the lukewarm coffee thoughtfully provided by the
prescient waitress for the emergency, and left the table. As I passed
out of the house into the grounds I heard a rich, strong male voice
singing an aria from "Rigoletto." I am bound to say that it was
exquisitely sung, too, but there was something in the performance that
displeased me, I could say neither what nor why, and I walked rapidly
away.

Returning later in the day I saw the elder of the two young women
standing on the porch and near her a tall man in black clothing--the man
whom I had expected to see. All day the desire to know something of
these persons had been uppermost in my mind and I now resolved to learn
what I could of them in any way that was neither dishonorable nor low.

The man was talking easily and affably to his companion, but at the
sound of my footsteps on the gravel walk he ceased, and turning about
looked me full in the face. He was apparently of middle age, dark and
uncommonly handsome. His attire was faultless, his bearing easy and
graceful, the look which he turned upon me open, free, and devoid of any
suggestion of rudeness. Nevertheless it affected me with a distinct
emotion which on subsequent analysis in memory appeared to be compounded
of hatred and dread--I am unwilling to call it fear. A second later the
man and woman had disappeared. They seemed to have a trick of
disappearing. On entering the house, however, I saw them through the
open doorway of the parlor as I passed; they had merely stepped through
a window which opened down to the floor.

Cautiously "approached" on the subject of her new guests my landlady
proved not ungracious. Restated with, I hope, some small reverence for
English grammar the facts were these: the two girls were Pauline and Eva
Maynard of San Francisco; the elder was Pauline. The man was Richard
Benning, their guardian, who had been the most intimate friend of their
father, now deceased. Mr. Benning had brought them to Brownville in the
hope that the mountain climate might benefit Eva,