. Some of
the persons assembled in that room remembered the pointing finger long
afterward.

"It makes one feel very small," said Etta, turning to the
breakfast-table--"at no time a pleasant sensation. Do you know," she
said, after a little pause, "I think it probable that I shall become
very fond of Osterno, but I wish it was nearer to civilization."

Paul looked pleased. Steinmetz had a queer expression on his face.
Maggie murmured something about one's surroundings making but little
difference to one's happiness, and the subject was wisely shelved.

After breakfast Steinmetz withdrew.

"Now," said Paul, "shall I show you the old place, you and Maggie?"

Etta signified her readiness, but Maggie said that she had letters to
write, that Etta could show her the castle another time, when the men
were out shooting, perhaps.

"But," said Etta, "I shall do it horribly badly. They are not my
ancestors, you know. I shall attach the stories to the wrong people, and
locate the ghost in the wrong room. You will be wise to take Paul's
guidance."

"No, thank you," replied Maggie, quite firmly and frankly. "I feel
inclined to write; and the feeling is rare, so I must take advantage of
it."

The girl looked at her cousin with something in her honest blue eyes
that almost amounted to wonder. Etta was always surprising her. There
was a whole gamut of feeling, an octave of callow, half-formed girlish
instincts, of which Etta seemed to be deprived. If she had ever had
them, no trace was left of their whilom presence. At first Maggie had
flatly refused to come to Russia. When Paul pressed her to do so, she
accepted with a sort of wonder. There was something which she did not
understand.

The same instinct made her refuse now to accompany Paul and Etta over
their new home. Again Etta pressed her, showing her lack of some feeling
which Maggie indefinitely knew she ought to have had. This time Paul
made no sign. He added no word to Etta's persuasions, but stood gravely
looking at his wife.

When the door had closed behind them, Maggie stood for some minutes by
the window looking out over the snow-clad plain, the rugged, broken
rocks beneath her.

Then she turned to the writing-table. She resolutely took pen and paper,
but the least thing seemed to distract her attention--the coronet on the
note-paper cost her five minutes of far-off reflection. She took up the
pen again, and wrote "Dear Mother."

The room grew darker. Maggie