Mrs. Seymour had not been very communicative with regard to Beechwood, the place to which they were going. She had said merely that it was on the Hudson. That it was her niece who was the invalid; that they had been some years abroad; that the house was very pleasant; that for certain reasons they saw but little company; and then had asked abruptly if Miss Lennox was nervous. Guy, who was not to accompany them, had asked the same question in connection with something he was saying of Beechwood, but Magdalen did not heed the question then, or attach to it any importance. She was very anxious to be off, and was glad when, at last, the car began to move, and she knew she was leaving New York. It was a warm, still day in early October, and Magdalen enjoyed the ride along the beautiful river, and was sorry when at last it came to an end, and she was left standing on the same platform where, years before, another young girl had stood looking about her, half sadly, half regretfully, and wishing herself away. It was a different carriage now which was waiting for the travellers,—a new, stylish carriage, drawn by two beautiful horses, which would have driven Frank Irving wild, and John, the coachman, in high-crowned hat and white gloves, was very deferential to Mrs. Seymour, and touched his hat to Magdalen, and saw them both into the carriage, and then, closing the door, mounted to his seat, and started up the mountain road, over which _Alice Grey_ had ridden many a time, for it was to her that Magdalen was going. She knew it at last, for as they rode up the mountain side she said to Mrs. Seymour: “I do not think you have told me the name of your niece. I have heard you call her Alice, and that is all I know of her.” “Surely, you must excuse me,” Mrs. Seymour replied; “I thought I had told you that her name was Alice Grey. You may have heard of her from Mr. Irving. We met him abroad, and again in New York.” “Yes, I have heard of her,” Magdalen replied, her face flushing, and her heart beating rapidly as she thought of the strange Providence which was leading her to one of whom she had heard so much, and of whom when a little girl she had been so jealous. “Hers is a most lovely character, and you are sure to like her,” Mrs. Seymour continued. “She has been sorely tried. We are all sorely tried. You told me, I think, that you were not nervous?” This was the second time she had put the question to Magdalen, who was not now quite so certain of her nerves as she had been when the question was asked her before; but Mrs. Seymour did not wait for an answer, for just then they came in sight of the house, which she pointed out to Magdalen, who thought of Millbank as she rode through the handsome grounds and caught glimpses of the river in the distance. The carriage stopped at last at a side door, and conducting Magdalen into a little reception room Mrs. Seymour asked the servant who met them, “where Miss Grey was?”