Her thinness and pallor
and tight lips, she thought only natural, but there was one note that
seemed discordant with pure desolation. The note was sounded by Lady
Cromarty's eyes. At all times they had been ready to harden upon an
occasion, but Cicely thought she had never seen them as hard as they
were now.

"What are your plans, Cicely?" she asked in a low, even voice that
showed no feeling one way or the other.

"I have begun to pack already," said the girl. "I don't want to leave so
long as I can be of any use here, but I am ready to go at any time."

She had expected to be asked where she was going, but Lady Cromarty
instead of putting any question, looked at her for a few moments in
silence. And it was then that a curious uncomfortable feeling began to
possess the girl. It had no definite form and was founded on no reason,
beyond the steady regard of those hard dark eyes.

"I had rather you stayed."

Cicely's own eyes showed her extreme surprise.

"Stayed--here?"

"Yes."

"But are you sure? Wouldn't you really rather be alone? It isn't for my
sake, is it? because--"

"It is for mine. I want you to remain here and keep me company."

She spoke without a trace of smile or any softening of her face, and
Cicely still hesitated.

"But would it really be convenient? You have been very kind to me, and
if you really want me here--"

"I do," interrupted Lady Cromarty in the same even voice. "I want you
particularly to remain."

"Very well then, I shall. Thank you very much--"

Again she was cut short.

"That is settled then. Perhaps you will excuse me now, Cicely."

The girl went downstairs very thoughtfully. At the foot the young
baronet met her.

"Have you settled where to go?" he asked.

"Lady Cromarty has asked me to stay on with her."

His face fell.

"Stay on in this house of mourning? Oh, no, Cicely!"

"I have promised," she said.

The young man grew curiously agitated.

"Oh, don't stay here!" he besought her. "It keeps me in such dreadful
suspense!"

"In suspense!" she exclaimed. "Whatever do you mean, Malcolm?"

Again she saw that look in his eye, and again he raised a
sympathy-beseeching wail. Cicely's patience began to give way.

"Really, Malcolm!" she cried tartly, "if you have anything to say, say
it, but don't go on like a baby!"

"Like a baby!" repeated the deeply affronted baronet. "Heavens, would
you liken me to _that_, of all things! I had meant to confide in you,
Cice