And stiff, indeed, Magdalen did find Aunt Pen, as the nephew called her. A little, short, straight, square-backed woman of sixty or thereabouts, with iron-gray hair, arranged in puffs around her forehead,—a proud, haughty, wrinkled face, and round bright eyes, which seemed to look straight through Magdalen as Guy ushered her into the room. “Miss Lennox, Auntie Pen,” he said, and taking Magdalen by the arm he led her up to his aunt, who felt constrained to offer her jewelled hand, but who did it in such a way that Magdalen felt the conventional gulf there was between them in the lady’s mind, and winced under it. “I hope you’ll order dinner at once,” Guy continued. “The train was an hour behind, and Miss Lennox is fearfully tired. I’ll ring myself,” and he touched the bell rope while Mrs. Seymour was saying something about being glad to see Miss Lennox, and hoping she was not very tired. Oh how strange and lonely Magdalen felt, when at last she was alone in her room for a few moments, while she arranged her hair and made herself more presentable for dinner! The windows looked out into a dreary court, and tears sprang to Magdalen’s eyes as she felt the contrast between these dingy brick walls and that damp, mouldy pavement, and the fresh green grass and wealth of flowers and shrubbery and forest trees which for years had been hers to gaze upon. Suppose she was to live at the St. Denis for years, and to occupy that room into which the sun never penetrated. And for aught she knew, such was to be her fate. She had made no inquiries as to where she was to live, whether in city or country, hotel or private house. Her orders were to come to the St. Denis, and there she was, and her heart was aching with homesickness, and a longing to be away,—not at Millbank, but with Roger, wherever he was. With him was home and happiness and rest, such as Magdalen felt she should never find again. But it would not do now to indulge in feelings like these. There was dinner waiting for her, as Guy’s cheery voice announced outside her door. “Never mind stopping to dress to-night. It won’t pay, and Aunt Pen don’t expect it. She is dressed enough for both,” he said; then he went away, and Magdalen heard him whistling a part of a favorite opera, and felt glad and grateful that at the very outset of her career she had met Guy Seymour to smooth away the rough places for her as he was doing in more ways than she knew of, or ever would know. To him she owed it that she was not left to find her way alone from the depot to the hotel. “There is no need of your going for her. People of her class can always find their way,” his aunt had said to him in the morning, when he asked what time she expected her _Yankee school-ma’am_ to arrive, saying he wished to know so as to have nothing in the way of his going up to meet her. To his aunt’s suggestion that “people of her class could usually find their way,” he gave one of his pet whistles, and said,