"I am certain of it; and no one will give you a more cordial welcome than Captain Danton, when I tell him the truth. Just now I have no proof. Do you know what I am going to do, Agnes?"

"No."

"Crosby is married, and living in New York. I mean to take a journey to New York shortly, and get a written declaration of your innocence from him. There--no thanks now. Keep up a good heart, and wait patiently for a month or two longer. Come, Tiger."

He was gone, whistling a tune as he went. The entrance hall was deserted, the dining-room was empty, and he ran up stairs to the drawing-room. Grace was there with her back to the door; and coming up noiselessly, he put his arm around her waist, and kissed her before she was aware.

She faced about, with a little cry, that changed to an exclamation of delight, upon seeing who it was.

"Oh, Frank! I am so glad! When did you come? I expected you a week ago."

"I know it," said her brother; "and I could have come too; but it struck me I should like to arrive to-day."

"To-day! Why? Oh, I forgot the fifth of June. It is hard, Frank, isn't it, just to think what might have been and what is."

"How does she take it?"

"She has been out nearly all day," replied Grace, knowing whom he meant; "she feels it, of course, more than words can tell; but she never betrays herself by look or action. I have never seen her shed a tear, or utter one desponding word, from the day the news reached her until this.

Her face shows what she suffers, and that is beyond her power to control."

Doctor Frank walked thoughtfully to the window, and looked out at the fading brilliance of the sunset. A moment later, and Eeny rode up on horseback, sprang out other saddle on the lawn, and tripped up the steps.

Another moment, and she was in the drawing-room.

"I saw you at the window," she said. "I am glad you have come back again. Danton Hall is too dismal to be described of late. Ah! Dear old Tiger, and how are you? Doctor Frank," lowering her voice, "do you know what day this is?"

Doctor Frank looked at her with a faint shadow of a smile on his face, humming a line or two of a ballad.

"'Long have I been true to you. Now I'm true no longer.' Too bad, Eeny, we should lose the wedding, and one wedding, they say, makes many."

"Too bad!" echoed Eeny, indignantly. "Oh, Doctor Frank, it was cruel of Rose, wasn't it? You would hardly know poor Kate now."

"Hush!" said the Doctor, "here she comes!"

A tall, slender figure came out from the orchard path, book in hand, and advanced slowly towards the house. Was it the ghost, the wraith, the shadow of beautiful Kate Danton? The lovely golden hair, glittering in the dying radiance of the sunset, and coiled in shining twists round the head, was the same; the deep large eyes, so darkly blue, were clear and cloudless as ever, and yet changed totally in expression. The queenly grace that always characterized her, characterized her still; but how wasted the supple form, how shadowy and frail it had grown. The haggard change in the pale face, the nervous contraction of the mouth, the sunken eyes, with those dark circles, told their eloquent tale.

"Poor child!" Doctor Frank said, with a look of unspeakable pity and tenderness; "it was cruel!"

Eeny ran away to change her dress. Grace lightly dusted the furniture, and her brother stood by the window and watched that fragile-looking girl coming slowly up through the amber air.

"How tired she looks!" he said.

"Kate?" said Grace, coming over. "She is always like that now. Tired at getting up, tired at lying down, listless and apathetic always. If Reginald Stanford had murdered her, it would hardly have been a more wicked act."

Her brother did not reply.

A few minutes later, Kate walked into the room, still with that slow, weary step. She looked at the new-comer with listless indifference, spoke a few words of greeting with cold apathy, and then retreated to another window, and bent her eyes on her book.

Captain Danton returned just as the dinner-bell was ringing; and his welcome made up in cordiality what his daughter's lacked. He, too, had changed. His florid face had lost much of its colour, and was grown thin, and his eyes were ever wandering, with a look of mournful tenderness, to his pale daughter.

They were all rather silent. Grace and her brother and the Captain talked in a desultory sort of way during dinner; but Kate never spoke, except when directly addressed, and silence was Eeny's forte. She sat down to the piano after dinner, according to her invariable custom, but not to sing. She had never sung since that day. How could she? There was not a song in all her collection that did not bring the anguish of some recollection of him, so she only played brilliant new, soulless fantasias, that were as empty as her heart.

When she arose from the instrument, she resumed her book and sat down at a table studiously; but Doctor Frank, watching her covertly, saw she did not turn over a page in an hour. She was the first to retire--very early, looking pale and jaded to death. Half an hour later, Eeny followed her, and then Captain Danton pushed away the chess-board impatiently. He had been playing with the Doctor, and began pacing feverishly up and down the room.

"What shall I do with her?" he exclaimed. "What shall I do to keep my darling girl from dying before my eyes? Doctor Danton, you are a physician; tell me what I shall do?"

"Take her away from here," said the Doctor, emphatically. "It is this place that is killing her. How can it be otherwise? Everything she sees from morning till night brings back a thousand bitter recollections of what is past and gone. Take her away, where there will be nothing to recall her loss; take her where change and excitement will drown thought. As her mind recovers its tone, so will her body. Take her travelling for the summer."

"Yes--yes," said Grace, earnestly. "I'm sure it is the very best thing you can do."

"But, my dear," said Captain Danton, smiling a little, "you forget that the first week of July we are to be married."

"Oh, put it off," Grace said; "what does a little delay matter? We are not like Rose and Reginald; we are old and steady, and we can trust one another and wait. A few month's delay is nothing, and Kate's health is everything."

"She might go with us," said the Captain; "suppose it took place this month instead of next, and we made a prolonged wedding-tour, she might accompany us."

Grace shook her head.

"She wouldn't go. Believe me, I know her, and she wouldn't go. She will go with you alone, willingly--never with me."

"She is unjust to you, and you are so generously ready to sacrifice your own plans to hers."

"Did you ever know a young lady yet who liked the idea of a step-mother?" said Grace, with a smile. "I never did. Miss Danton's dislike and aversion are unjust, perhaps; but perfectly natural. No, no, the autumn or winter will be soon enough, and take Kate travelling."

"Very well, my dear; be it as you say. Now, where shall we go? Back to England?"

"I think not," said Doctor Frank. "England has nearly as many painful a.s.sociations for her as Danton Hall. Take her where she has never been; where all things are new and strange. Take her on a tour through the United States, for instance."

"A capital idea," exclaimed the Captain. "It is what she has wished for often since we came to Canada. I'll take her South. I have an old friend, a planter, in Georgia. I'll take her to Georgia."

"You could not do better."

"Let me see," pursued the Captain, full of the hopeful idea; "we must stay a week or two in Boston, a week or two in New York; we must visit Newport and Saratoga, rest ourselves in Philadelphia and Washington, and then make straight for Georgia. How long will that take us, do you suppose?"

"Until October, I should say," returned the Doctor. "October will be quite time enough to return here. If your daughter does not come back with new life, then I shall give up her case in despair."

"I will speak to her to-morrow," said the Captain, "and start the next day. Since it must be done, it is best done quickly. I think myself it will do her a world of good."

Captain Danton was as good as his word. He broached the subject to his daughter shortly after breakfast next morning. It was out in the orchard, where she had strayed, according to custom, with a book. It was not so much to read--her favourite authors, all of a sudden, had grown flat and insipid, and nothing interested her--but she liked to be alone and undisturbed, "in sunshine calm and sweet," with the scented summer air blowing in her face. She liked to listen, dreamy and listless, and with all the energy of her nature dead within her, to the soft murmuring of the trees, to the singing of the birds overhead, and to watch the pearly clouds floating through the melting azure above. She had no strength or wish to walk now, as of old. She never pa.s.sed beyond the entrance-gates, save on Sunday forenoons, when she went slowly to the little church of St. Croix, and listened drearily, as if he was speaking an unknown tongue, to Father Francis, preaching patience and long-suffering to the end.

She was lying under a gnarled old apple-tree, the flickering shadow of the leaves coming and going in her face, and the sunshine glinting through her golden hair. She looked up, with a faint smile, at her father's approach. She loved him very much still, but not as she had loved him once; the power to love any one in that old trustful, devoted way seemed gone forever.

"My pale daughter," he said, looking down at her sadly, "what shall I do to bring back your lost roses!"

"Am I pale?" she said, indifferently. "What does it matter? I feel well enough."

"I don't think you do. You are gone to a shadow. Would you like a change, my dear? Would you not like a pleasure tour this summer weather?"

"I don't care about it, papa."