nected with
Pulwick--something more, I mean, than the mere fact that we were born
here. So many of the older people greet me, at first, as if they knew
me--they all say I am so like 'the Madam;' they don't see the same
likeness in Madeleine for all her _grand air_. There was Mrs. Mearson,
the gatekeeper, was struck in amazement. And the old housekeeper,
whenever she has an opportunity tries to entertain me about the
beautiful foreign lady and the grand times they had at Pulwick when
she was here, and 'Sir Tummas' was still alive.

"But, though we are made to feel that we are more than ordinary
guests, it is not on account of Mr. Landale, but _on account of Sir
Adrian_--the Master, as they call him, whom we never see, and whom his
brother would make out to be mad. Why is he so anxious that Sir Adrian
should not know that Aunt Rose has brought us here? He seemed willing
enough to please her, and yet nothing that she could say of her wish
could induce him even to send a messenger over to the rock. And now we
may be here all these two months and never even have caught a sight of
the _Master_. I wonder if he is still like that portrait--whether he
bears that face still as he now sits, all alone, brooding as his
brother says, up in those ruined chambers, while the light burns calm
and bright in the tower! What can this man of his have to say to me?"

Molly dotted her last forgotten "i," blotted it, closed and carefully
locked the book. Then, rising, she danced over to her sister, and
forced her into a pirouette.

"And now," she cried gaily, "our dear old Tanty is pulling on her
nightcap and weeping over her posset in the stuffy room at Lancaster
regretting _me_; and I should be detesting her with all my energies
for leaving me behind her, were it not that, just at present, I
actually find Pulwick more interesting than Bath."

Madeleine lifted her heavy-lidded eyes a little wonderingly to her
sister's face, as she paused in her gyration.

"What fly stings thee now?" she inquired in French.

"You do not tell me about _your_ wounds, my dear, those wounds which
little Dan Cupid has made upon your tender heart, with his naughty
little arrow, and which give you such sweet pain, apparently, that you
revel in the throes all day long. And yet, I am a good child; you
shall guess. If you guess aright, I shall tell you. So now begin."

They stood before the fire, and the leaping tongues of light played
upon their white garments,