een woods that rose tier upon tier above
and beyond--woods of beech and of oak, not yet green, but purplish
under the rainy mist. On the bank, woods too, and here, where the
river, in excess of strength, swirled into a creek--a shining
sand-bank where fishing nets were hung. Then the low, strong tower of
a church, with the sombreness of cypress beside it, and the thatched
roofs of cottages.

Something stirred in the heart of Robinette as she looked, that part
of her blood which her English mother had given her. This scene, so
indescribably English as hardly to be imaginable in another land, had
been painted for her again and again by her mother with all the
retrospective romance of an exile's touch. She knew it, but she did
not know if she could ever love it, beautiful though it was and
noble.

But she banished these misgivings and ran down the twisted stairway
so fast that she was almost panting when she reached the drawing-room
door.

"I will take your arm, please," said the hostess coldly, while Miss
Smeardon wore the virtuous and injured air of one who has been kept
waiting. Mrs. de Tracy laid, on the warm and smooth arm of her guest,
one of her small, dry hands, sparkling with rings, and the procession
closed with the companion and the lap-dog.

In the dining room, the shutters were closed, and the candles, in
branching candlesticks of silver, only partially lit a room long and
low like the other. The walls were darkened with pictures, and
Robinette's bright eyes searched them eagerly.

"The Sir Joshua is not here!" she thought. "And it was not in the
drawing room. Has Aunt de Tracy given, or hidden it away--my very own
name-picture?"

With all her determination, Robinette somehow could not summon courage
enough to ask where this picture was. Such a question would involve
the mention of her mother's name, and from that she shrank. Young Mrs.
Loring had never before found herself in a society where conversation
was apparently regarded as a crime, and to fit herself to her
environment, under the scrutiny of Mrs. de Tracy and the decidedly
inimical looks of the companion, took all her time. A burden of
self-consciousness lay upon her such as her light and elastic spirit
had never known. She found herself morbidly observant of minute
details; the pattern of the tablecloth; the crest upon the spoons; the
curious red knobs upon Miss Smeardon's fingers, and the odd mincing
way she held her fork; the almost athlet