Her face flushed a sudden, painful red, and then turned very pale. "I
do not remember my mother," she stammered. "She died when I was quite
young."

"Poor thing!" thought Dartmouth. "How girls do grieve for an unknown
mother!" "But you have seen her picture?" he said, aloud.

"Yes, I have seen her pictures. They are dark, like myself. But that
is all."

"You must have had a lonely childhood, brought up all by yourself in
that gloomy old castle I have heard described."

She colored again and crushed a fern-leaf nervously between her
fingers. "Yes, it was lonesome. Yes--those old castles always are."

"By the way--I remember--my mother spent a summer down there once,
some twelve or thirteen years ago, and--it comes back to me now--I
remember having heard her speak of Rhyd-Alwyn as the most picturesque
castle in Wales. She must have known your mother, of course. And you
must have known the children. _Why_ was I not there?"

"I do not remember," she said, rising suddenly to her feet, and
turning so pale that Dartmouth started to his in alarm. "Come; let us
go back to the salon."

"There is some mystery," thought Dartmouth. "Have I stumbled upon a
family skeleton? Poor child!" But aloud he said, "No, do not go yet;
I want to talk to you." And when he had persuaded her to sit down