At this juncture, as Cora had predicted, Mr. Percy presented himself, and the four fell into attitudes, in front of the grate--Percy leaning on the back of Miss Arthur's chair, and Cora and Davlin in their former places. "_Merci_," said Miss Arthur, pretending to stifle a yawn, "why can't we all be out in this keen air and sunshine? If there were but snow on the ground!" "Snow!" cried Cora, annoyed out of her usual assumption of feebleness; "don't mention it, if you don't want me to die. We won't have snow, if you please, until I can drive in a cutter." Percy laughed softly; his laugh was always disagreeable to Cora, as having an undercurrent of meaning intended for her alone. And Davlin said: "Hear and heed, all ye gods of the wind and weather." "Well, laugh," said Cora, half laughing herself, "but I am beginning to feel ambitious. Do let's try to set something afoot to make us feel as if we were alive, and glad that we were." "Agreed, Cora," cried Miss Arthur, gushingly, "only tell us what it shall be." "Suggest, suggest;" this from Davlin. The spinster glanced up coquettishly, "Edward, you suggest." Percy caressed his blonde whiskers thoughtfully, and letting his eyes rest carelessly on Cora, said, meaningly: "Let's poison each other!" "Or commit suicide!" retorted Cora, coolly. "Let's be more sensible," said Davlin. "Let's organize a matrimonial society, get up a wedding, and go on a journey." "Anything that will break the monotony," said Cora, while the fair spinster giggled and put her hands before her face. At that moment the monotony _was_ broken. While the words were still lingering on the lips of the fair convalescent, the door was opened wide by old Hagar, who said, as if she had been all her life announcing the arrival of great ones at the court of St. James: "_Miss Madeline Payne!_" Then she stepped back, and a vision appeared before them which struck them dumb and motionless with surprise. Across the threshold swept a young lady, richly robed in trailing silk and velvet and fur; with a face fair as a star-flower, haughty as the face of any duchess; with amber eyes that gazed upon them contemptuously, masterfully, fearlessly; with wave upon wave of golden brown hair, clustering about the temples and snowy neck; and with scarlet lips half parted in a scornful smile. She swept the length of the room with matchless grace and self-possession, and pausing before the astonished group, said, in a voice clear as the chime of silver bells: "Good-evening, ladies and gentlemen! I believe I have not the honor of knowing--ah, yes, this is Miss Arthur; _Aunt Ellen_, how do you do?" There are some scenes that beggar description, and this was such an one. [Illustration: "_Miss Madeline Payne!_"--page 346.] Miss Arthur, who clearly recognized in this lovely young lady the little Madeline of years ago, was so stricken with astonishment that she utterly forgot how appropriate it would be to faint.