"Audrey," said Lady Frances, turning to her daughter, "who is that girl?"

"I cannot tell you, mother. Her name is Sylvia Leeson. She lives somewhere near, I suppose."

"She is fairly well-bred, and undoubtedly handsome," said Lady Frances.

"I was attracted by her appearance, but when I asked her if I might call on her mother she seemed distressed. She said her mother was dead, and that I was not to call."

"Poor girl!" said Audrey. "You upset her by talking about her mother, perhaps."

"I do not think that was it. Do you know anything at all about her, Audrey?"

"Nothing at all, mother, except that I suppose she lives in the neighborhood, and I am sure she is desperately poor."

"Poor, with that dress!" said Lady Frances. "My dear, you talk rubbish."

Audrey opened her lips as if to speak; then she shut them again.

"I think she is poor notwithstanding the dress," she said in a low voice. "But where is she? Has she gone?"

"She bade me good-night a minute ago and ran up-stairs."

"But Evelyn has not gone up-stairs. Has she let her go alone?"

"Just what I should expect of your cousin," said Lady Frances.

Audrey crossed the hall and went up to Evelyn's side.

"Do you notice that Sylvia has gone up-stairs?" she said. "Have you let her go alone?"

"Yes. Don't bother," said Evelyn.-"What are you saying, Bob?-that you can cut the figure eight in--"

Audrey turned away with an expression of disgust. A moment later she said something to her friend Juliet and ran up-stairs herself.

"What are we to do with Evelyn?" was her thought.

The same thought was pa.s.sing through the minds of almost all the matrons present; but Evelyn herself imagined that she was most fascinating.

Audrey went to Evelyn's bedroom. There she saw Sylvia already arrayed in her ugly, tattered, and untidy dress. She looked like a different girl.

She was pinning her battered sailor-hat on her head; the color had left her cheeks, and her eyes were no longer bright. When she saw Audrey she pointed to the muslin dress, which was lying neatly folded on a chair.

"I am going to take it home; it shall be washed, and you shall have it back again."

"Never mind about that," answered Audrey; "I would rather you did not trouble."

"Very well-as you like; and thank you, Miss Wynford, a hundred times. I have had a heavenly evening-something to live for. I shall live on the thoughts of it for many and many a day. Good night, Miss Wynford."

"But stay!" cried Audrey-"stay! It is nearly midnight. How are you going to get home?"

"I shall get home all right," said Sylvia.

"You cannot go alone."

"Nonsense! Don't keep me, please."

Before Audrey had time to say a word Sylvia had rushed down-stairs. A side-door was open, she ran out into the night. Audrey stood still for a moment; then she saw Jasper, who had come silently into the room.

"Follow that young lady immediately," she said. "Or, stay! Send one of the servants. The servant must find her and go home with her. I do not know where she lives, but she cannot be allowed to go out by herself at this hour of night."

Jasper ran down-stairs, and Audrey waited in Evelyn's pretty bedroom.

Already there were symptoms all over the room of its new owner's presence; a marked disarrangement of the furniture had already taken place. The room, from being the very soul of order, seemed now to represent the very spirit of unrest. Jasper came back, panting slightly.

"I sent a man after the young lady, miss, but she is nowhere to be seen.

I suppose she knows how to find her way home."

Audrey was silent for a minute or two; then taking up the dress which Sylvia had worn, she hung it over her arm.

"Shall I take that back to your room, miss?"

"No, thank you; I will take it myself," replied the girl.

She walked slowly down the pa.s.sage, descended some steps, and entered her own pretty room in a distant wing. She opened her wardrobe and hung up the dress.

"I do hope one thing," thought Audrey. "Yes, I earnestly hope that mother will never, never discover that poor Sylvia wore my dress. Poor Sylvia! Who is she? Where does she live? What is she?"

Meanwhile Sylvia Leeson was walking fast through the dark and silent night. She was not at all afraid; nor did she choose the frequented paths. On the contrary, after plunging through the shrubbery, she mounted a stile, got into a field, crossed it, squeezed through a hedge at the farther end, and so, by devious paths and many unexpected windings, found herself at the entrance of a curious, old-fashioned house. The house was surrounded by thick yew-trees, which grew up almost to the windows. There was a wall round it, and the enclosed s.p.a.ce within was evidently very confined. In the gleam of light which came now and then through wintry, driving clouds, a stray flower-bed or a thick holly-bush was visible, but the entire aspect of the place was gloomy, neglected, and disagreeable in the extreme. Sylvia pushed a certain spring in the gate; it immediately opened, and she let herself in. She closed the gate softly and silently behind her, and then, looking eagerly around, began to approach the house. The house stood not thirty yards from the gate. Sylvia now for the first time showed symptoms of fear. Suddenly a big dog in a kennel near uttered a bay. She called his name.

"Pilot, it is I," she said.

The dog ambled towards her; she put her hand on his neck, bent down, and kissed him on the forehead. He wagged his tail, and thrust his cold nose into her hand. She then stood in a listening att.i.tude, her head thrown back; presently, still holding the dog by the collar, she went softly-very softly-round the house. She came to a low window, which was protected by some iron bars.

"Good night, Pilot," she said then. "Good night, darling; go back and guard the house."

The dog trotted swiftly and silently away. When he was quite out of sight Sylvia put up her hand and removed one bar from the six which stood in front of the window. A moment later the window had been opened and the girl had crept within. When inside she pushed the bar which had been previously loosened back into its place, shut the window softly, and crossing the room into which she had entered, stole up-stairs, trembling as she did so. Suddenly a door from above was opened, a light streamed across the pa.s.sage, and a man's voice said:

"Who goes there?"

There was an instant's silence on the part of Sylvia. The voice repeated the question in a louder key.

"It is I, father," she answered. "I am going to bed. It is all right."

"You impertinent girl!" said the man. "Where have you been all this time? I missed you at dinner; I missed you at supper. Where have you been?"

"Doing no harm, father. It is all right; it is really. Good night, father."

The light, however, did not recede from the pa.s.sage. A man stood in the entrance to a room. Sylvia had to pa.s.s this man to get to her own bedroom. She was thoroughly frightened now. She was shaking all over. As she approached, the man took up the candle he held and let its light fall full on her face.

"Where have you been?" he said roughly.

"Out, father-out; doing no harm."