"Oh, did she come?" "Charles fetched her, and for that Madame never forgave him." "Oh, how dreadful!" "Yes, yes, it is sad; but it would have been a terrible mésalliance. A Montenay and his steward’s daughter! No, no, it would not have done; one does not do such things." Aline got up abruptly. "Oh, I must go," she said. "I promised I would not be long. See, here is the egg." "You are in such a hurry," mumbled the old woman, confused. She was still in the past, and the sudden change of subject bewildered her. "I will come again," said Aline gently. When she was clear of the inn she walked very fast for a few moments, and then stopped. She did not want to go home at once—the story she had just heard had taken possession of her, and she wanted to be alone to adjust her thoughts, to grow accustomed to kind placid Mlle Ange as the central figure of such a tragedy. After a moment’s pause she took the path that led to the château, but stopped short at the high iron gates. Beyond them the avenue looked black and eerie. Her desire to go farther left her, and she leaned against the gates, taking breath after the climb. The early dusk was settling fast upon the bare woods, and the hollow where the village lay below was already dark and flecked with a light or two. Above, a little yellowish glow lurked behind the low, sullen clouds. It was very still, and Aline could hear the drip, drip of the moisture which last night had coated all the trees with white, and which to-night would surely freeze again. It was turning very cold; she would not wait. It was foolish to have come, more than foolish to let an old woman’s words sting her so sharply—"One does not do such things." Was it her fancy that the dim eyes had been turned curiously upon her for a moment just then? Yes, of course, it was only fancy, for what could Mère Leroux know or suspect? She drew her cloak closer, and was about to turn away when a sound startled her. Close by the gate a stick cracked as if it had been trodden on, and there was a faint brushing sound as of a dress trailing against the bark of a tree. Aline peered into the shadows with a beating heart, and thought she saw some one move. Frightened and unnerved, she caught at the scroll-work of the gate and stared open-eyed, unable to stir; and again something rustled and moved within. This time it was plainly a woman’s shape that flitted from one tree to the next—a woman who hid a moment, then leaned and looked, and at last came lightly down the avenue to the gate. Here the last of the light fell on Marguerite de Matigny’s face, showing it very white and hollow-eyed. Aline’s heart stood still. Could this be flesh and blood? Marguerite here? Not in the flesh, then. "Marguerite," she breathed. Marguerite’s hand came through the wrought-work and caught at her. It was cold, but human, and Aline recovered herself with a gasp. "Marguerite, you?"