nd your poor lame knees, Marie--they are better?"

"N'importe," she grunted, "but I do not like the feel of the night.
Was M'sieur Ben down there with you?"

"Yes."

"You should be in bed by now. You must go at once."

"I think I shall sleep in the little room off yours to-night."

"Bien. Then if you need anything in the night, you can call me."

Marie was scarcely able to turn herself in her bed, but, she still felt
the responsibility of the house.

"Very well, Marie. Good night."

She kissed the old housekeeper upon the forehead and was going out when
she heard the latter murmur as though to herself,

"The black horse may mean Jacques."

"Have you heard nothing from him in his new position?" she asked,
turning at the door.

"Non," she answered sharply. "Go to bed."

So the girl went on into a darkness that she, too, found ridden by
black horses.

For three generations the Arsdales had been a family of whom those who
claim New York as their inheritance had known both much and little. It
was impossible to ignore the silent part Horace Arsdale, the
grandfather, had played in the New York business world or the quiet
influence he had exerted in such musical and literary centres as
existed in his day. Any one who knew anybody would answer an inquiry
as to who they might be with a surprised lift of the eyebrows.

"The Arsdales? Why they are--the Arsdales."

"But what--"

"Oh, they are a queer lot. But they have brains and--money."

Horace Arsdale died in an asylum, and there were the usual ugly rumors
as to what brought him there. He left a son Benjamin, and Benjamin
built the present Arsdale house at a time when it was like building in
the wilderness. Here he shut himself up with his bride, a French girl
he had met on his travels. Ask any one who Benjamin Arsdale was and
they would be apt to answer,

"Benjamin Arsdale? Oh, he is Benjamin Arsdale. They say he has a
great deal of talent and--money."

The first statement seemed to be proven by some very delicate lyrical
verse which appeared from time to time in the magazines. Though a
member of the best half dozen New York clubs, not a dozen men out of
the hundreds who knew his name had ever seen him.

His wife died within three years, some say from a broken heart, some
say from homesickness, leaving a boy child six months old. At this
point Benjamin Arsdale's name disappeared even from the magazines, and
save to a very few people he wa