While these thoughts were yet passing through Lotte’s brain, Helen Grahame stood before the house from which, in such shame and anguish, she had fled. She grew sick and faint, and, for a moment, her strength and courage failed her; but she remembered her little child and Lotte’s wan face and thin figure; then her arm was nerved, and she knocked boldly, as of old, at the door. The porter opened it, but, when he saw who it was who claimed admission, he drew back with an exclamation of surprise. Helen heeded it not, nor did she utter a word to him, but passed through the hall with a proud air, as she had been wont to display when at home, and no shadow rested upon her fair name. As she ascended the staircase, she encountered Whelks, who, upon thus suddenly coming face to face with her, all but fainted. Her step, dignified as it was, made scarcely a sound, and her face, so white and delicate, convinced him that he was confronted by Helen’s apparition. She fastened her brilliant black eye upon him, and haughtily inquired where the family were. “In the dinin’ room, Miss,” he gasped. “At dinner?” she asked. “Yes, Miss,” he replied, not yet certain that he was not holding converse with a real ghost. “They are all at dinner.” “My maid, Chayter--where is she?” demanded Helen, in the same imperious tone. “She ’ave left, Miss,” responded Whelks, with a gulp. “She ’ave gone directly after you--some time ago, Miss.” He knew not how to express himself in his excitement. “And Miss Evangeline’s maid?” exclaimed Helen, in a tone of inquiry. “Oh, her, Miss; she--she are in Miss Evangeline’s room, Miss, upstairs.” “Enough,” returned Helen, in the same cold, haughty voice, and added, sternly--“Mention not my arrival to any one. I will announce myself.” She passed him, and proceeded direct to her sister’s room. Within it was seated the young maid who attended Evangeline. She had taken the opportunity, while the family were at dinner, to place herself very close to the light of a lamp and read over--slowly and earnestly--a letter addressed to her by one George Jenkins, wherein he had made statements which made her eyes glitter, and her lips to pucker into a small circle. She laid her letter in her lap to revel in one enchanting sentence, when she became conscious of the presence of some one in the room standing in front of her. With a slight scream she leaped up, and, crumpling her letter in her hand, crammed it into her pocket, and, with scarlet face and trembling limbs, saw that the eldest Miss Grahame, or her wraith, stood before her. She was about to make a very lively demonstration, but Helen checked her. “Be not alarmed,” she said, hastily; “make no noise; do as I direct you, for I shall need your assistance.” “You are really and truly Miss Grahame come home again?” asked the girl, her eyes almost starting out of their sockets.