rst season, too!"

Gabrielle glanced round the table, coloured slightly, but said nothing.
The guests knew too well that in the Glencardine household there had
always been, and always would be, slightly strained relations between
her ladyship and her stepdaughter.

For an hour after dinner all was bustle and excitement; then, in the
covered wagonette, the gay party drove away, while Gabrielle, standing
at the door, shouted after them a merry adieu.

It was a bright, clear, moonlit night, so beautiful indeed that,
twisting a shawl about her shoulders, she went to her father's den,
where he usually smoked alone, and, taking his arm, led him out for a
walk into the park over that gravelled drive where, upon such nights as
that, 'twas said that the unfortunate Lady Jane could be seen.

When alone, the sightless man could find his way quite well with the aid
of his stick. He knew every inch of his domain. Indeed, he could descend
from the castle by the winding path that led deep into the glen, and
across the narrow foot-bridges of the rushing Ruthven Water, or he could
traverse the most intricate paths through the woods by means of certain
landmarks which only he himself knew. He was ever fond of wandering
about the estate alone, and often took solitary walks on bright nights
with his stout stick tapping before him. On rare occasions, however,
when, in the absence of her ladyship, he enjoyed the company of pretty
Gabrielle, they would wander in the park arm-in-arm, chatting and
exchanging confidences.

The departure of their house-party had lifted a heavy weight from both
their hearts. It would be dawn before they returned. She loved her
father, and was never happier than when describing to him things--the
smallest objects sometimes--which he himself could not see.

As they strolled on beneath the shadows of the tall elms, the stillness
of the night was broken only by the quick scurry of a rabbit into the
tall bracken or the harsh cry of some night-bird startled by their
approach.

Before them, standing black against the night-sky, rose the quaint,
ponderous, but broken walls of the ancient stronghold, where an owl
hooted weirdly in the ivy, and where the whispering of the waters rose
from the deep below.

"It's a pity, dear, that you didn't go to the dance," the old man was
saying, her arm held within his own. "You've annoyed your mother, I
fear."

"Mother is quite happy with her guests, dad; while I am quite hap