The shortening November days, the strengthening cold, that closed the creek and was beginning to bind the river, the gray unlifting skies, I welcomed as a foil to the cosy evenings in the dining-room where Mrs. Macleod and I sewed and stitched, and planned for the various rooms, Jamie smoked and jeered or encouraged, and the four dogs watched every movement on our part, with an ear cocked for little Pete who was cracking butternuts in the kitchen. The life in the manor was so peaceful, so sheltered, so normal. Every member of the household was busy with work during the day, and the night brought with it well-earned rest, and a sense of comfort and security in the flame-lighted rooms. Often after going up to my bedroom, which Marie kept acceptably warm for me, I used to sit before the open grate stove for an hour before going to bed, just to enjoy the white-walled peace around me, the night silence without, the restful quiet of the old manor within. At such times I found myself dreading the "foreign invasion", as I termed in jest the coming of the owner of Lamoral and Doctor Rugvie. To the first I gave little thought; the second was rarely absent from my consciousness. "How will it all end?" I asked myself time and time again while counting off the days before his arrival. What should I find out? What would the knowledge lead to? "Who am I? Who--who?" I said to myself over and over again during those three weeks of preparation. And at night, creeping into my bed--than which there could be none better, for it was in three layers: spring, feather bed and hair mattress--and drawing up the blankets and comforter preparatory for the sharp frost of the early morning, I cried out in revolt: "I don't care a rap who I may prove to be! If only this peaceful sense of security will last, I want to remain Marcia Farrell to the end." But I knew it could not last. I hinted as much to Jamie Macleod only three days before the fifteenth of November. We were making our last trip to the village for some extra supplies for Angélique. We were alone, and I was driving. "Jamie," I said suddenly, after the old and trustworthy cart-horse, newly and sharply shod for the ice, had taken us safely over the frozen creek, "I wish this might last, don't you?" He looked at me a little doubtfully. "You mean the kind of life we 're living now? Yes,"--he hesitated,--"for some reasons I do; but there are others, and for those it is better that the change should come." "What others?" I was at times boldly inquisitive of Jamie; I took liberties with his youth. "You would n't understand them if I told you. Wait till the others come and you 'll see, in part, why." "Do you know," I continued, my words following my thought, "that you 've never told me a thing about Doctor Rugvie and Mr. Ewart?" "Not told you anything? Why, I thought I 'd said enough that first evening for you to know as much of them as you can without seeing them."