e used to liken her to a rosebud in it, and
said that no color more truly matched the soft tender bloom of her young
face.

Hilda put on the rose silk now, arranged her dark hair picturesquely,
and going downstairs to the little drawing room, occupied herself for an
hour or more in giving it some of those delicate touches which make the
difference between the mistress of the house being at home and away.

It was a very warm evening for the time of year, but Hilda had a fire
lit in the grate. The shaded lamp shed a softened golden glow in its
accustomed corner of the room, and Jasper's favorite chair was placed
ready for his reception; then Hilda sank down into her own easy-chair,
and taking up a book, tried to read.

Susan came presently into the room.

"Oh, Susan," said her mistress, "I was about to ring for you. It has
struck ten o'clock; you and cook are to go to bed, please; I will wait
up for Mr. Quentyns."

"If you please, ma'am," said Susan.

She stopped and hesitated.

"Yes, Susan?" answered Mrs. Quentyns, in a gentle interrogative tone.

"If you please, ma'am, master has been very late coming home when you
was in the country--not till past midnight most nights."

"Thank you, Susan; but Mr. Quentyns will probably be in earlier
to-night, and I wish to remain up. Go to bed, and tell cook to do the
same. Oh, and please, I should like Miss Judy to have a cup of tea
brought to her room at eight to-morrow morning. Good-night, Susan."

The parlor-maid withdrew.

"And don't she look beautiful as a pictur," she muttered under her
breath. "Pore young lady, I doubt if she's pleased with master though.
Him staying away and all on the first night as she comes back. I
wouldn't set up for him ef I were her--no, that I wouldn't; I wouldn't
make so little of myself; but she's proud, too, is Mrs. Quentyns, and
she don't let on; no, not a bit. Well, I respect her for that, but I
misdoubt me if all is right atween that pair."

Susan went upstairs to confide her suspicions to cook. They talked in
low whispers together, and wondered what the mystery could be which was
keeping Quentyns from his pretty wife's side.

In the meantime, in the silent house the moments for the one anxious
watcher went slowly by. Her novel was not interesting--she let it fall
on her knees, and looking at the little clock on the mantelpiece,
counted the moments until eleven should strike. She quite expected that
Jasper would be home at eleven.