"Miss Gastonguay likes to have people go over the house,--that is, if she asks them," he added. Derrice went slowly up-stairs. She admired this house. Here, in the midst of a New England community, was breathed the fragrance of the Old World. It was a living expression of the tastes of the people long passed away. There was nothing glaringly new about it, there was a complete absence of anything deforming or ungraceful. Even the night lamp on the bracket in the hall above was of exquisite workmanship. By scrupulous attention to detail, a most symmetrical whole had been obtained. She passed the open doors of bedrooms, all long, white, cool, and dainty, all having snowy beds draped with curtains in the French style. Into these she did not enter, but contented herself with pacing up and down the hall, and looking from the windows at the wintry March landscape, until Prosperity came up the staircase and spoke to her between the railings. "If you go up to the cupola, miss, you'll have a fine view. There is the staircase," and he pointed to the back of the hall. Derrice followed his advice. A good-sized cupola had been, by some injudicious member of the family, built like an excrescence on the roof of the old château. Going up the dark winding stairway with her head bent, she was on the threshold of the cup-shaped apartment almost before she was aware of it. She heard a soft rustle, then, gazing blindly into the soft haze of red light to discover the cat or dog hidden in the room, found instead that she had invaded the retreat of two people who had evidently retired here to be alone. With a swift "I beg your pardon," she was about to retreat, carrying with her a picture of the handsome clergyman, lounging on a red velvet sofa in dreamy, contented ease, with one arm extended in an aimless curve toward a tall young lady who stood calm, erect, and triumphant between him and the doorway. But an appeal recalled her, "Mrs. Mercer, do not go away," and Mr. Huntington rose slowly; "let me introduce you to Miss Chelda." So this was Miss Gastonguay's niece. Derrice shook hands with her, looked into the long, narrow eyes that had taken on their usual veiled expression, and watched her curiously, as she lifted a graceful arm to draw back some of the crimson velvet curtains obscuring the windows. Derrice sank into a low, padded seat, a contrast to the stiff-backed chairs below. Probably this was the sanctum of the petted niece, and, with inward disquiet, she wondered how soon she could with propriety withdraw. Chelda turned to her with a conventional remark upon her lips, but it was not uttered. By mutual consent no one spoke, so touching was the beauty of the twilight. A ruddy glow enveloped the light-roofed town, the ice-blocked river, the blue bay, the dull and sombre wood behind the house, and beautified even the snow and mud of the mottled landscape beyond. "I must go," said Derrice, rising suddenly. "It is getting late."