She stood in its embrasure, a dove-coloured dressing-gown thrown over her shoulders, her face turned toward the town, her whole attitude one of charming expectancy. To-morrow he would be at home,--her own adored husband. The night was not very dark. There was no moon, but the stars were shining brightly, and some light was afforded to the atmosphere by the shining bosom of the river. Across the face of her musings there suddenly drifted the fat figure of the pony. Either allured by the calm beauty of the night, or disturbed in his slumbers by some remembrance of a too hearty supper, he had left his loose box, whose door was always open, and was employing his time by strolling about the lawn and the gravel drive. Derrice knew that in his younger days he had been a circus pony, and although long since rescued from that life by Miss Gastonguay, he yet retained some habits not in general peculiar to the equine race. He could neatly brush Miss Gastonguay's coat by means of a whisk held between his teeth, he could also look for a hidden handkerchief, and upon one or two occasions he had been ignominiously expelled from the house while indulging in an interested search for a sugar-bowl. To-night he was evidently uneasy, and Derrice watched him compassionately as he walked slowly up and down before the house, and presently, by way of quieting his nerves, went to practise his steps on a trick ladder that Miss Gastonguay had had erected on the lawn for him. Up and down the steps he went, carefully balancing himself on his dainty hoofs, but he found no peace for his troubled mind in the exercise, and soon returned to the pawed spot on the grass below his mistress's window, where he stood nervously throwing his head in the air and seeming to catch it as it came down. "Poor pony, he is unhappy and I am so happy," murmured Derrice, and hastily thrusting her arms into the sleeves of her gown, she drew on a pair of shoes and resolved to go down and beg him to return to the stable. Of a singularly fearless disposition, it never occurred to her that there could be any danger to herself in following the pony's example by prowling about the large and lonely house at the dead of night. She did not even think of a light, and, stepping to the doorway of her room, she was just about to hurry through the hall when a sudden discovery brought her to a standstill. Her room was just across the hall from Miss Gastonguay's, and according to a mutual agreement both slept with their doors open, "Lest you should be lonely," Miss Gastonguay said, "And lest any one should run away with you," Derrice often rejoined. Miss Gastonguay was not one to break a promise, even of the most trifling nature, and, with a low, "Perhaps she has gone down to the pony herself," Derrice pushed open the door of her room. Usually she could look right in and see the uninterrupted shadowy outline of the big white bed at the end of the room. Now there was an obstruction.