e to be married a month from to-day," he said. "A month from
to-day and we shall be knocking about Europe and pining for English
civilization." He drew her down on the cushioned seat that ran along
the wall by the chimney-piece. "We cannot go out to-night; there is a
storm coming up. Ah, did I not tell you?" as a gust of wind shrieked
and rattled the sash.

She gave a little shiver and drew closer to him. "I hate a storm," she
said. "It always brings back--" she stopped abruptly.

"Brings back what?"

"Nothing," hastily. "So father has given his consent? But I knew he
would. I knew he liked you the moment you met; and when he alluded
that night to your small hands and feet I knew that the cause was won.
Had they been at fault, nothing could have persuaded him that you did
not have a broad river of red blood in you somewhere, and he never
would have approved of you had you been the monarch of a kingdom."

Dartmouth smiled. "The men at college used to laugh at my hands, until
I nearly choked one of them to death one day, after which they never
laughed at them again. There is no doubt now about my having been
destined at birth for a Welsh maiden, and equipped accordingly. But
you know your father pretty thoroughly."

"I have lived alone with him so long that I can almost read his mind,
and I certainly know his peculiarities."

"It must have been a terribly lonely life for you. How old were you
when your mother died?"

She moved with the nervous motion habitual to her whenever her
mother's name was mentioned. "I was about nine," she said.

"_Nine_? And yet you remember nothing of her? Weir, it is impossible
that you cannot remember her."

"I do not remember her," she said.

"I saw her picture in the library to-night. She must have been very
beautiful, but like you only in being dark. Otherwise, there is not a
trace of resemblance. But surely you must remember her, Weir; you are
joking. I can remember when I was four years of age perfectly, and
many things that happened."

"I remember nothing that happened before I was nine years old," she
said.

He bent down suddenly and looked into her face. "Weir, what do you
mean? There is always an uncomfortable suggestion of mystery whenever
one speaks of your mother or your childhood. What is the reason you
cannot remember? Did you have brain fever, and when you recovered,
find your mind a blank? Such things have happened."

"No," she said, desperately, as if she had