Doctor was very well off, and Mrs. Lester fancied she had everything
quite in style. Celia stole into her place, feeling small in the
presence of the stranger.

After breakfast, when the Doctor had somewhat refreshed himself by its
good cheer from his last night's fatigue, Isabella requested to speak
with him.

"Let me stay with you a little while," she asked, beseechingly; "I will
do everything for you that you desire. You shall teach me anything;--I
know I can learn all that you will show me, all that Mrs. Lester will
tell me."

"Perhaps so,--perhaps that will be best," answered the Doctor, "until
your friends inquire for you; then I must send you back to them."

"Very well, very well," said Isabella, relieved. "But I must tell you
they will not inquire for me. I see you will not believe my story. If
you only would listen to me, I could tell it all to you."

"That is the only condition I can make with you," answered the Doctor,
"that you will not tell your story,--that you will never even think of
it yourself. I am a physician. I know that it is not good for you to
dwell upon such things. Do not talk of them to me, nor to my wife or
daughter. Never speak of your story to any one who comes here. It will
be better for you."

"Better for me," said Isabella, dreamily, "that no one should know!
Perhaps so. I am, in truth, captive to the White Prince; and if he
should come and demand me,--I should be half afraid to try the risks of
another game."

"Stop, stop!" exclaimed the Doctor, "you are already forgetting the
condition. I shall be obliged to take you away to some retreat, unless
you promise me"----

"Oh, I will promise you anything." interrupted Isabella; "and you will
see that I can keep my promise."

Meanwhile Mrs. Lester and Celia had been holding a consultation.

"I think she must be some one in disguise," suggested Celia.

Celia was one of the most unromantic of persons. Both she and her mother
had passed their lives in an unvarying routine of duties. Neither of
them had ever found time from their sewing even to read. Celia had her
books of history laid out, that she meant to take up when she should get
through her work; but it seemed hopeless that this time would ever come.
It had never come to Mrs. Lester, and she was now fifty years old. Celia
had never read any novels. She had tried to read them, but never was
interested in them. So she had a vague idea of what romance was,
conceiving of it only