vine-leaves. The
chapel was fitted up in accordance with the rites of the Catholic
religion, and before the High Altar and Tabernacle burned seven roseate
lamps, which were suspended from the roof by slender gilt chains. A
large crucifix, bearing a most sorrowful and pathetic figure of Christ,
was hung on one of the side walls; and from a corner altar, shining
with soft blue and silver, an exquisite statue of the Madonna and Child
was dimly seen from where we knelt. A few minutes passed, and Zara
rose. Looking towards the Tabernacle, her lips moved as though
murmuring a prayer, and then, taking me by the hand, she led me gently
out. The heavy oaken door swung softly behind us as we ascended the
chapel steps and re-entered the great hall.

"You are a Catholic, are you not?" then said Zara to me.

"Yes," I answered; "but--"

"But you have doubts sometimes, you would say! Of course. One always
doubts when one sees the dissensions, the hypocrisies, the false
pretences and wickedness of many professing Christians. But Christ and
His religion are living facts, in spite of the suicide of souls He
would gladly save. You must ask Casimir some day about these things; he
will clear up all the knotty points for you. Here we are at the
drawing-room door."

It was the same room into which I had first been shown. Zara seated
herself, and made me occupy a low chair beside her.

"Tell me," she said, "can you not come here and stay with me while you
are under Casimir's treatment?"

I thought of Madame Denise and her Pension.

"I wish I could," I said; "but I fear my friends would want to know
where I am staying, and explanations would have to be given, which I do
not feel disposed to enter upon."

"Why," went on Zara quietly, "you have only to say that you are being
attended by a Dr. Casimir who wishes to have you under his own
supervision, and that you are therefore staying in his house under the
chaperonage of his sister."

I laughed at the idea of Zara playing the chaperon, and told her she
was far too young and beautiful to enact that character.

"Do you know how old I am?" she asked, with a slight smile.

I guessed seventeen, or at any rate not more than twenty.

"I am thirty-eight," said Zara.

Thirty-eight! Impossible! I would not believe it. I could not. I
laughed scornfully at such an absurdity, looking at her as she sat
there a perfect model of youthful grace and loveliness, with her
lustrous eyes and rose-tin