“Now, that is settled. The precedent—don’t they call it a precedent in the courts of law, David?—the precedent is established. Henceforth you are to take your meals with us, dear Mrs. Brent, just as if you were our mother, and Philippa were our sister; for we have neither mother nor sister on this earth—I mean David nor I—and, besides, really, we four are too few to be separated in this lonesome place,” said the little lady of the house, as she settled herself to enjoy her dinner as well as she could under the circumstances and the memory of the afternoon’s horror. It was a very limited dinner, consisting of just what was at hand and could be cooked in a hurry; but it was a very dainty dinner, notwithstanding; there were delicious broiled venison steaks, light biscuits, fresh butter, a baked custard, preserved mountain cherries, tea, coffee and cream. David Lindsay and Mrs. Brent fully appreciated the good things, and proved that they did so. But neither Gloria nor Philippa could so far overcome the effect of that ghastly terror in the cave as to relish anything that was set before them. As this late meal was to serve as both dinner and supper for the small household on this day of bustle, they sat rather long at the table, not leaving it, in fact, until the short tallow candles that had been placed upon it began to burn low in their sockets. Then David Lindsay and Gloria withdrew from the dining-room and went into the parlor on the opposite side of the hall. There, also, a fine fire was burning, and a table was drawn up before the hearth, flanked by two straight-backed, chip-bottomed chairs. “What would Miss Agrippina de Crespigney say, if she could have seen her niece, the ‘Countess Gloria,’ sitting down at the table with her housekeeper?” inquired David Lindsay, with a smile, as they seated themselves near the fire. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, drop that! I never was intended for a fine lady, David Lindsay—never!—much less for a countess! I love people, David Lindsay. I never want to keep them at a distance. I want to draw them closer to me,” she murmured, in a tender tone, with her eyes fixed dreamily upon the fire. “Then love me, draw me nearer to you, and my life’s devotion shall be yours,” was in his heart and almost on his lips to say; but he put away the selfish thought and continued silent. It was growing late, and they were both very tired. Gloria was the first to rise. “Good-night, David Lindsay,” she said as she took one of the tallow candles from the chimney shelf to light her steps. “Good-night,” he answered, in gentle tones. “Your room,” she resumed, and then she hesitated, holding the candle in her hand and looking down on the floor—“your room is the one over the dining-room. You will find everything prepared there for your comfort.” “I thank you—very much,” answered the young man, in a low and broken voice. “Good-night,” she said, still hesitating. “Good-night, lady dear.”