Hubert Lepel had promised to spend Christmas Day at Beechfield, but for some unexplained reason he stayed away, sending at the last moment a telegram which his sister felt to be unsatisfactory. Flossy did not often exert herself to obtain a guest; but on this occasion she wrote a rather reproachful letter to her brother, and begged him not to fail to visit them on New Year's eve. "The General was disappointed," she wrote, "and so was someone else." Hubert thought that she meant herself, felt a thrill of wondering compassion, and duly presented himself at the Hall on the thirty-first of December. He saw Flossy alone in her luxurious boudoir before anyone else knew of his arrival. He thought her looking ill and haggard, and asked after her health. To his surprise, the question made her angry. "Of course I am not well--I am never well," she answered; "but I am no worse than usual. There is someone else in the house whose appearance you had better enquire after." "You are fond of talking in riddles. Do you mean the General?" said Hubert drily. "No, not the General," Florence answered, setting her lips. Hubert shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. He had not an idea of what she meant; but when, shortly before dinner, he first saw Enid, a light flashed across his mind--Flossy meant that the girl was ill. He had certainly been rather dense and rather unkind, he thought to himself, not to ask after her. And how delicate she was looking! What was the matter with her? It was not merely that she was thinner and paler, but that an indefinable change had come over her countenance. The shadow that had always lurked in her sweet eyes seemed to have fallen at last over her whole face, darkening its innocent candor, obscuring its tranquil beauty; the look of truthfulness and of ignorance of evil had gone. No child-face was it now--rather that of a woman who had been forced to look evil in the face, and was repelled and sickened at the sight. There was no joy in the eyes with which Enid now looked upon the world. Hubert watched her steadily through the long and elaborate meal which the General thought appropriate to New Year's eve, noting her weariness, her languor, her want of interest in anything that went on, and could not understand the change. Was this girl--sick apparently in body and mind--the guileless maiden who had listened with such flattering attention to the stories of his wanderings in foreign lands, when he last came down to Beechfield Hall? He tried her with similar tales--they had no interest for her now. She was silent, _distraite_, preoccupied. Still gentle and sweet to every one, she was no longer bright; smiles seemed to be banished for ever from her lips.