“I say!” he exclaimed anxiously. “Your hair—your shoes—you’ll take a chill, Miss Moran!” “I feel anxious about Miss Moran myself,” said Dr. Quelton. “I’m afraid she’s a very imprudent young lady.” But Lexy said nothing. XIII The doctor’s library had a charm of its own. It was a big room, careless, a little shabby, but furnished in fastidious taste and with a friendly sort of comfort. A great wood fire was blazing on the hearth, and Dr. Quelton drew up an armchair before it for Lexy. “There!” he said. “Now you’ll soon be warm and dry. Anna!” “Yes, sir!” the parlor maid responded from the doorway. “Please tell Mrs. Quelton that Miss Moran is here.” “Yes, sir!” repeated the maid, and disappeared. Lexy sat down. Captain Grey stood, facing her, leaning one elbow on the mantelpiece. Dr. Quelton paced up and down, his hands clasped behind him. He looked like a dignified middle-aged gentleman in his own home. A door opened somewhere in the house, and for a moment Lexy heard the homely and familiar sound of an egg-beater whirring and a cheerful Irish voice inquiring about “them potaters.” It was surely a cheerful and pleasant enough setting; but Lexy did not find it so. “I saw Caroline!” she insisted to herself. “I don’t care what any one says. I saw Caroline!” A strange sensation of pain and dread oppressed her. What should she do? Whom should she tell? “Captain Grey,” she thought; “but not now. It’s no use now. Dr. Quelton would deny it. I’ll have to wait until we get out of here; and then, perhaps, it’ll be too late. He knows I saw her. Something—something horrible—may happen!” A shiver ran through her. “Miss Moran is nervous,” said the doctor, with solicitude. “I’m not!” replied Lexy sharply. “I hope it’s not a chill,” said Captain Grey. “I should be inclined to think it nervousness,” said Dr. Quelton. “Our landscape here is lonely and depressing, and Miss Moran has the artist’s temperament, impressionable, high-strung.” “Not I!” declared Lexy, in a tone that startled Captain Grey. “Lonely places don’t bother me. I don’t believe in ghosts.” “Oh!” said the doctor. “But here’s Mrs. Quelton. Muriel, this is Miss Moran, the young writer of fiction.” Mrs. Quelton was coming down the long room, a beautiful woman, dark and delicate, with a sort of plaintive languor in her manner. She held out her hand to Lexy. “I’m so glad you’ve come!” she said. “George has told me so much about you—the first American girl he’s known!” She glanced at her brother with a little smile. Lexy glanced at him, too; and she was surprised and very much touched by the look on his face. He couldn’t even smile. His face was grave, pale, almost solemn, and he was regarding his sister with something like reverence. “Oh, poor fellow!” thought Lexy. “Poor lonely fellow! It’s such a wonderful thing for him to find his sister—some one of his own. I only hope she’s as nice as she looks.”