"Miss Josephine," I had heard Mr. Rutledge say, "it is such a lovely night, you will surely not refuse to let me drive you. It will be infinitely pleasanter than going in the carriage, I assure you." It was a very long and a very silent drive for the inmates of the carriage, to Windy Hill; and when we arrived there, we found the gentlemen of our party awaiting our coming with some impatience. The curtain would be raised in a moment, Phil said; the tableaux had been retarded as long as possible on our account. Where were Josephine and Mr. Rutledge? "Echo answers where," said Grace. "Taking the longest way, you may be sure, and making the most of this lovely moonlight." Mrs. Churchill did not seem very uneasy, and after a little consultation in the dressing-room, it was decided that we should not wait for them, but should all go down to the parlor. Accordingly we descended the stairs and entered the room _en masse_. It was quite full, and as they had only been waiting for our arrival, in a few moments the curtain rose. The tableaux were very fine, no doubt; there were murmurs of applause and exclamations of admiration from all the company. All were enthusiastically received, and some were encored. I tried to attend, but my recollection of them is only a confused jumble of convent and harem scenes, trials of queenly personages, and signings of death warrants and marriage contracts; Effie Deans, and Rebekah at the well, the eve of St. Bartholomew, and the landing of the Pilgrims. I tried to attend, both to the tableaux and to Victor's whispered conversation, but there was "something on my mind" as Kitty would have said, too engrossing to allow me to succeed. Do what I might, I still found myself listening eagerly for the sound of carriage wheels outside. Victor noticed my abstracted and nervous manner, and turned away at last with a half sigh. The curtain rose and fell many times, the audience admired, applauded and encored, with untiring enthusiasm, the little French clock above me on the mantelpiece, marked the departing minutes faithfully, and still they did not come. This was as unlike Josephine as it was unlike Mr. Rutledge. Something dreadful had happened, I was sure; something that would make the memory of this night forever terrible, and what a miserable mockery it was for us all to be laughing and talking so thoughtlessly. Mrs. Churchill was anxious, I could see, but she tried very faithfully to conceal it, and laughed and turned off all conjectures about them with her usual skillful nonchalance. Phil had walked the piazza as long as he could endure it, then throwing himself upon his horse, had galloped off in the direction of Rutledge. At last the parlors were cleared of all the appurtenances of the tableaux, and the dancing began. I was standing by a window listening--oh, how eagerly!--for the sound of wheels, when Victor approached me, and asked for the next dance.