How still the room was! Dropping his hand from his eyes, as a ghostly sense of its intense stillness crossed his mind, he saw, with a sudden thrill of surprise, the figure of Muriel in the moonlight before him. She stood serene and motionless, with a certain grave majesty of mien which awed him—her beautiful bare arms lightly laid one upon another, and her white robe falling softly around the perfect outlines of her tall and stately form. The moonlight rested on the shadowy amber of her hair, and on her face, grave and sweet, from which her dimly shining eyes looked calmly upon him. A little surprised at the suddenness of her appearance, as by her mystic beauty he sat for a moment gazing at her. “Do not rise,” she said, quietly, as he made a movement to leave his seat. “Remain where you are. I have sent for you this evening, John, to converse with you on a matter of moment to both of us.” Her voice had never seemed so serenely sweet as now. It thrilled him like the low tones of some exquisite musical instrument. But wondering what she could mean, and filled with strange wonder at her manner, he sat breathlessly gazing at her. “What is it, Muriel?” he said at length, in a hushed voice. “It is this, John,” she replied, still remaining motionless. “You have not seen Wentworth since I saw you last?” “I have not, Muriel.” “Nor Emily?” “No.” “I thought not,” she said, after a pause. “John, I talked with Wentworth this morning, and he told me of a conversation that passed recently between Mr. Witherlee and your master-at-arms—Monsieur Bagasse. Wentworth, for certain reasons which he will explain to you to-morrow, told you only a portion of that conversation as it was reported to him. There is a part which I want to tell you now.” Harrington, who thought when she mentioned that she had spoken with Wentworth, that she was about to tell him the meaning of the strange speech the young artist had flung at Emily, looked at her, utterly puzzled to know what possible importance could attach to the conversation between Bagasse and Witherlee. “The part I want to tell you, relates to you, John,” she continued. “Mr. Witherlee had led the fencing-master to suppose that you loved a lady whom he described as wealthy, of high social position, and much personal beauty.” “Oh, yes,” interrupted Harrington, quietly. “I heard that Witherlee has represented me as Emily’s lover.” “No,” said Muriel, serenely, “it was not Emily he mentioned. It was another lady.” Harrington’s heart leaped convulsively, and, even in the shadow where he sat, Muriel saw the color rush to his face. “Monsieur Bagasse,” she continued, “expressed his satisfaction that you were to marry so fine a lady, whereat Witherlee told him he was mistaken, that the lady would as soon marry a man out of the poorhouse, and that it was very odd that he should think a lady who belonged, as he said, to our first society, would wed a man who wears such a plain coat as you do.”