the table with a strange, frightened look in her eyes. "What a curious
question! The room is a common room, of course, with nothing in it out
of the ordinary way; only, as I said before, it happens to be Lady
Chillington's whim to walk there. So, if you hear the noise again, you
will know how to account for it, and will have too much good sense to
feel in the least afraid."

I had a half consciousness that Dance was prevaricating with me in this
matter, or hiding something from me; but I was obliged to accept her
version as the correct one, especially as I saw that any further
questioning would be of no avail.

I did not see Lady Chillington that day. She was reported to be unwell,
and kept her own rooms.

About noon a message came from Sister Agnes that she would like to see
me in her room. When I entered she was standing by a square oak table,
resting one hand on it while the other was pressed to her heart. Her
face was very pale, but her dark eyes beamed on me with a veiled
tenderness that I could not misinterpret.

"Good-morrow, Miss Hope," she said, offering her white slender hand for
my acceptance. "I fear that you will find Deepley Walls even duller than
Park Hill Seminary."

Her tone was cold and constrained. I looked up earnestly into her face.
Her lips began to quiver painfully. "Child! child! you must not look at
me in that way," she cried.

Instinct whispered something in my ear. "You are the lady who came and