Having put the picture away, Mr. Grey made himself ready for dinner, and then going down to the parlor, he stood before the grate, waiting for his daughter and Miss Lennox. The door was open into the hall, and he saw them as they came, with their arms interlaced, and Magdalen’s head bent towards Alice, who was smiling up at her. “Strong friendship at once,” he thought, feeling for a moment vexed that his high-bred daughter, should so soon have fallen in love with her hired companion. But this emotion of pride passed away forever with Mr. Grey’s first full inspection of Magdalen Lennox, whose brilliant beauty startled and surprised him, and whose bright, restless eyes confounded and bewildered him, carrying him back to the Schodick hills, and the orchard where the apple blossoms were growing. But not there could he find the solution of the strange feeling which swept over him and kept him silent, even after Alice had introduced her friend. “Miss Lennox, father,” Alice said, a second time, and then he came to himself, and said, “Excuse me, Miss Lennox, something about you, as you came in, sent me off into the fields of memory, in quest of some one who must have been like you. You are very welcome to Beechwood, and I am glad to see you here.” With a courtly grace he offered her his arm, and led her to the dining-room, followed by Alice and his sister, both of whom were delighted to see him take so kindly to a stranger. To Mrs. Seymour it showed an acknowledgment on his part of her good taste and judgment in selecting so fitting a person for Alice’s companion, and a willingness to follow her advice, and make the best of it, even if Miss Lennox was connected with the Irvings. _She_ knew something of Jessie’s story. She saw her once in Schodick, and she had done what she could to separate her brother from her, but she did not know of the tragic ending, and she gave no thought to the poor, drowned woman, who, all through the formal dinner, was so constantly in Magdalen’s mind. She had at once identified Mr. Grey with the stranger in Belvidere, though he seemed older than she had thought him then. Still, there was no mistaking him, and when his sister casually addressed him as “Arthur,” it came over her, with a great shock, that this man was none other than the “Arthur Grey” who had been poor Jessie’s ruin, and whom Roger hated so cordially. There could be no mistake; she was positive that she was right in her conclusions, and felt for a moment as if she were smothering. What strange fatality was it which had brought her into the very household of the man she had hated, for Roger’s sake, and longed to see that she might tell him so. She _had_ seen him, at last! he was there, at her side, speaking to her so kindly, and making her feel so much at home, that she could _not_ hate him, and before dinner was over she had ceased to wonder at Jessie’s infatuation, or to blame her for listening to him. He was very