stion if she would learn anything more, I walked slowly on,
convinced that she would follow me.

She did, giving me short side glances, which I bore with an equanimity
that much belied the tempest of doubt, repugnance and horror that were
struggling blindly in my breast. But she did not renew the subject of
the grave. Instead of that, she opened one of her most fascinating
conversations, endeavoring by her wiles and graces to get at my
confidence and insure my good will.

And I was hypocrite enough to deceive her into thinking she had done so.
Though I showed her no great warmth, I carefully restrained myself from
betraying my real feelings, allowing her to talk on, and giving her now
and then an encouraging word or an inviting smile.

For I felt that she was a serpent and must be met as such. If she were
the woman I thought her, I should gain nothing and lose all by betraying
my distrust, while if she felt me to be her dupe I might yet light upon
the secret of her interest in the oak parlor.

Her daughter was waiting for us in the doorway when we reached the
house. At the sight of her pure face, with its tender gray eyes and
faultless features, a strong revulsion seized me, and I found it
difficult not to raise my arms in protest between her beauty and winning
womanliness and the subtile and treacherous-hearted being who glided so
smoothly toward her. But the movement, had I made it, would have been in
vain. At the sight of each other's faces a lovely smile arose on the
daughter's lips, while on the mother's flashed a look of love which
would be unmistakable even on the countenance of a tiger, and which was
at this moment so vivid and so real that I never doubted again, if I had
ever doubted before, that mademoiselle was her own child--flesh of her
flesh, and bone of her bone.

"Ah, mamma," cried one soft voice, "I have been so lonesome!"

"Darling," returned the other, in tones as true and caressing, "I will
not leave you again, even for a walk, till you are quite well." And
taking her by the waist, she led her down the hall toward the stairs,
looking back at me as she did so, and saying: "I cannot take her to
Albany until she is better. You must think what we can do to make her
strong again, Mrs. Truax." And she sighed as she looked up the short
flight of stairs her daughter had to climb.

* * * * *

OCTOBER 15, 1791.

That stone in the garden seems to possess a magnet