ell, 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
associations 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 passed 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 m