d and
courtesied down to the ground.

She received this homage with dignified courtesy, and her eye stole
round to see if the master of the house was coming to receive her.

The library door was opened hastily, and out came to meet her--Father
Francis.

"Welcome, madam, a thousand times welcome to your new home," said he, in
a stentorian voice, with a double infusion of geniality. "I claim the
honor of showing you your part of the house, though 'tis all yours for
that matter." And he led the way.

Now this cheerful stentorian voice was just a little shaky for once, and
his eyes were moist.

Mrs. Gaunt noticed, but said nothing before the people. She smiled
graciously, and accompanied him.

He took her to her apartments. They consisted of a salle-a-manger, three
delightful bedrooms, a boudoir, and a magnificent drawing-room, fifty
feet long, with two fireplaces, and a bay-window thirty feet wide,
filled with the choicest flowers.

An exclamation of delight escaped Mrs. Gaunt. Then she said, "One would
think I was a queen." Then she sighed, "Ah," said she, "'tis a fine
thing to be rich." Then, despondently, "Tell him I think it very
beautiful."

"Nay, madam, I hope you will tell him so yourself."

Mrs. Gaunt made no reply to that. She added: "And it was kind of him to
have you here the first day: I do not feel so lonely as I should without
you."

She took Griffith at his word, and lived with Rose in her own
apartments.

For some time Griffith used to slip away whenever he saw her coming.

One day she caught him at it, and beckoned him.

He came to her.

"You need not run away from me," said she: "I did not come into your
house to quarrel with you. Let us be _friends_,"--and she gave him her
hand sweetly enough, but O so coldly!

"I hope for nothing more," said Griffith. "If you ever have a wish, give
me the pleasure of gratifying it,--that is all."

"I wish to retire to a convent," said she, quietly.

"And desert your daughter?"

"I would leave her behind, to remind you of days gone by."

By degrees they saw a little more of one another; they even dined
together now and then. But it brought them no nearer. There was no
anger, with its loving reaction. They were friendly enough, but an icy
barrier stood between them.

One person set himself quietly to sap this barrier. Father Francis was
often at the Castle, and played the peacemaker very adroitly.

The line he took might be called the innocent