was sure all was right, that you were feeling nervous, and
only wanted a breath of the fresh air you would find in the halls." And
my glance did not flinch, nor my mouth lose its smile, though she
surveyed me keenly with eyes whose look might penetrate a stone.

"You understand your own sex," was her light reply, after this short
study of my face. "Yes; I was very nervous. I have cares on my mind,
and, though my daughter does not realize it, I often lie awake at her
side, longing for space to breathe in and freedom to move as freely as
my uneasiness demands. Last night my feelings were too much for my
self-control, and I arose. I hope I did not seriously disturb you, or
awaken anybody, with my restless pacing up and down the hall."

I assured her that it took more than this to disturb me, and that after
quieting her daughter I had immediately fallen asleep; all of which she
may have believed or may not; I had no means of reading her mind, as she
had no means of reading mine.

But whether she was deceived or whether she was not, she certainly
looked relieved, and after some short remarks about the weather, turned
from me with the most cheerful air in the world, to greet her daughter.

As for me, I have made up my mind to change my room. I shall not say
anything about it or make any fuss on the subject, but to-night, and for
some nights to come, I intend to take up my abode in a certain small
room in the west wing, not very far removed from the dreadful oak
parlor.

CHAPTER XX.

THE STONE IN THE GARDEN.

OCTOBER 11, 1791.

This morning the post brought two letters for my strange guests. Being
anxious to see how they would be received, I carried them up to Madame
Letellier's room myself.

The ladies were sitting together, the daughter embroidering. At the
sight of the letters in my hand they both rose, the daughter reaching me
first.

"Let me have them!" she cried, a glad, bright color showing for a moment
on her cheek.

"From your father?" asked the mother, in a tone of nonchalance that did
not deceive me.

The girl shook her head. A smile as exquisite as it was sad made her
mouth beautiful. "From--" she began, but stopped, whether from an
instinct of maidenly shame or some secret signal from her mother, I
cannot say.

"Well, never mind," the mother exclaimed, and turned away toward the
window in a manner that gave me my dismissal.

So I went out, having learned nothing, save the fact th