the main
hall of that floor. Celine Leroque opened her door cautiously, having
first donned her not very becoming walking attire. Then she took up
her position just outside the angle of the western hall, and so close
to it that if an approach was made from below, she could easily retire
behind the angle.

[Illustration: "She stood erect, silent, motionless."--page 248.]

She had grown heartily tired of her sentinel task when, at last, a
soft rustle was heard near at hand. Celine turned so quickly into the
narrower hall that she fairly ran upon and stopped--Mrs. John Arthur!
who uttered a sharp exclamation expressive of surprise and annoyance.

Celine poured forth a mixture of French and English, expressive of her
contrition and horror at having "almost overturned madame," and wound
up by saying, "Madame has been to my room? Madame has desired some
service, perhaps? If so, she has only to command."

Cora drew a breath of relief, having sufficiently recovered from the
collision and accompanying confusion, to draw a breath of any kind,
and at once rallied her forces.

"Yes, Celine, I wanted you to do something for me, if you will."

"Anything, madame."

Madame was collecting her thoughts. "I--I wanted to ask if you could
find time to come to my room and try and do something with my hair.
Your hair-dressing is perfect, and I am so tired of my own."

Celine would be only too happy. Should she come now? She had just
returned from the village; she would put off her hat and be at
madame's disposal. But madame was not inclined to be manipulated just
then. Celine might come to her dressing room and do her hair for
dinner--after she was done with Miss Arthur, of course.

So they separated, mutually satisfied.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A VERITABLE GHOST.

What a day of glory it had been to the spinster, this day on which
Madeline had read her three letters, and Cora had explored the shut-up
wing.

And what a day of torture to fastidious Edward Percy, who would have
welcomed any third presence, even Cora or John Arthur--any one,
anything, was better than that long slavery at the feet of a painted
and too-visibly ancient mistress. But even the longest days have an
end. At last he was set at liberty, and he hurried back to the little
inn, literally kicking his way through the Autumn darkness.

The old house of Oakley stood, with its last light extinguished, tall
and somber, against a back-ground of black sky and blacke