aces, dead and gone. He will have Mrs. Liston in to sing and play and
exorcise the ghosts. Nobody ever sang Scotch songs or played Scotch
melodies half so sweetly, thinks the worn old man, as his little
companion.

The door opens and she enters. Her tread, her touch, her garments, are
always soft and noiseless. She comes gliding forward in the gloaming,
not unlike a ghost herself. Her pale face seems almost startlingly pale
in contrast with the black dress she wears. In its whiteness her great
dusk eyes look bigger and blacker than ever. It strikes Mr. Darcy.

"Child," he says, "how pale you are. Come over here and let me look at
you. You are more like a spirit of the twilight than a young lady of the
period."

He draws her affectionately to him, and she sinks on her knees by his
chair. There is no light but the dull glow of the fire; he tilts up her
chin, and gazes smilingly down into the lovely sombre eyes.

"'Oh, fair, pale Margaret,'" he quotes. "Little one, what is it? You
promised to tell me sometime. Why not to-night?"

"Why not to-night?" she repeats. "To-night be it, then. But first, is
that a letter on the table?"

"Oh, by-the-by, yes--I nearly forgot all about it. Another letter from
our mated turtle doves in Florida. I see by the postmark they are in
Florida now. I have kept it for you to read, as usual."

She takes it quite calmly; she knows that big, bold chirography well,
and the day comes back to her when Mr. Liston brought to the Chelsea
cottage the brief, pitiless note in the same hand--her death warrant.
She seats herself on a hassock near the big invalid chair, and by the
light of the fire reads Laurence Thorndyke's letter.

It is the gay letter of a happy bridegroom whose bride bends over his
shoulder smiling while he writes. He tells of their travels, of how well
and handsome Helen is looking; that in another month for certain they
will be at home. And with best love and all the kisses he can spare from
Nella, he is, as ever, his affectionate nephew, Laurence Thorndyke.

She finished the letter and laid it down.

"Coming home," Mr. Darcy repeats. "Well, I am always glad to see the
boy, always fond of Nella. And we will all go to Europe together in
May--you to take care of the old man, my dear, and help him laugh at the
turtle doves billing and cooing. And in sunny France, in fair Italy, we
will see if we cannot bring back roses to these white cheeks."

The dark eyes lift, the grave youn