ould be.

"Then you wish me to remain here as a companion to your sister?" she
said, slowly; and there was evidently some little disappointment in her
face.

"Unless we can think of something more pleasant for you," I replied. "We
can make that a temporary arrangement. In any case, permit me to say
that I shall take the care of your future on my hands, as Sir Barnard
would have done."

"You are very kind," she said, thoughtfully; "I had no right to expect
that. I did not anticipate anything of the sort."

We talked then, in low tones, about the late baronet and his son. Of
Miles she said very little. Of Sir Barnard she told me many anecdotes,
illustrating his pride, his grave, stately character, his intense love
of caste, his conservatism. I felt almost as though I had known him
before she had finished.

"And Miles," I said, "the poor young heir; how did you like him?"

Was it my fancy, the light flickering on her face, or did a quick
shudder pass over it?

"Every one liked him," she said, slowly. "He was proud and reserved; yet
he was a general favorite."

She was strangely quiet after that, and I suddenly remembered the
drawing-room was hers. I rose, bidding her good-night.

"You shall be sure to hear the stir of the arrival, mademoiselle," I
said; "do not let it disturb you. I should advise you to keep your room
tomorrow until the funeral is over."

Yet, although I so advised her, it struck me that she did not feel any
great amount of sorrow. I cannot tell why I had that impression, but it
was very strong upon me.

Nine o'clock, and the arrival had not yet taken place. The fragrant
gloaming was giving way to night; there was promise of a bright moon,
and the golden stars were peeping one by one. The night-wind was laden
with odors, a thousand flowers seemed to have given their sweet breath
to fan it. It would have been profanation to have lighted a cigar, so I
went out on the Queen's Terrace and walked under the whispering lime
trees, thinking of all that had passed in those few days.

Slowly but surely the conviction gained upon me that I did not like
Coralie d'Aubergne. I ought, according to all authentic romances, to
have fallen in love with her on the spot, but I was far from doing so.
"Why?" I asked myself. She was very brilliant--very lovely; I had seen
no one like her, yet the vague suspicion grew and grew. It was not the
face of a woman who could be trusted; there was something insincere
benea