behind her, and her eyes fixed steadfastly on the
floor. In vain Abby Rock tried to draw her into the conversation,
telling her how she, Abby, and Mr. De Arthenay had been talking about
her, and how they thought she'd better stay right on where she was for
a spell, till she was all rested up, and knew what she wanted to do.
Mr. De Arthenay would be a friend to her, and no one could be a better
one, as she'd find. But Marie only said that Monsieur was very kind,
and never raised her eyes to his. De Arthenay, on his part, was no
more at ease. He could not take his eyes from the slender figure, so
shrinking and modest, or the lovely downcast face. He had no words to
tell her all that was in his heart, nor would he have told it if he
could. It was still a thing of horror to him,--a thing that would
surely be cast out as soon as he came to himself; and how better could
he bring himself to his senses than by facing this dream, this
possession of the night, and crushing it down, putting it out of
existence? So he sat still, and gazed at the dream, and felt its
reality in every fibre of his being; and poor good Abby sat and talked
for all three, and wondered what to goodness was coming of all this.

She wondered more and more as the days went on. It became evident to
her that De Arthenay, her stern, silent neighbour, who had never so
much as looked at a woman before, was "possessed" about her little
guest. Marie, on the other hand, continued to regard him with terror,
and never failed to make the horns secretly when he appeared; yet day
after day he came, and sat silent in the sitting-room, and gazed at
Marie, and wrestled with the devil within him. He never doubted that
it was the devil. There was no awkwardness to him in sitting thus
silent; it was the habit of his life: he spoke when he had occasion to
say anything; for the rest, he considered over-much speech as one of
the curses of our fallen state. But Abby "felt as if she should fly,"
as she expressed it to herself, while he sat there. A pall of silence
seemed to descend upon the room, generally so cheerful: the French girl
cowered under it, and seemed to shrink visibly, like a dumb creature in
fright. And when he was gone, she would spring up and run like a deer
to her own little room, and seize her violin, and play passionately,
the instrument crying under her hands, like a living creature,
protesting against grief, against silence and darkness, and the f