So when the snows of Christmas lay deep on the ground, the new servant was up and about the little house, serving her new mistress skillfully and well, but preserving a rather sullen and taciturn demeanor, as if somehow she had a quarrel with fate and could not be reconciled to some scurvy trick it had played upon her now or in past days. While Mrs. Flint was wondering how to put to her some plain questions as to her service with her brother’s wife, Rachel Dane forestalled her by saying, in a sort of casual way: “When I got off the train at the station, I saw a man I used to know--Mr. Everard Dawn. Does he live hereabout?” “No,” replied Mrs. Flint. “Visiting, maybe?” with veiled anxiety. “Yes.” “Oh! At whose house?” “At mine; but he has gone to Europe, now,” returned Mrs. Flint, succinctly. The woman started, and muttered some inaudible words, as though she had received an unpleasant surprise. “Perhaps you don’t know that it was Everard Dawn--my brother--who brought you in here out of the snow that night?” added Mrs. Flint. “So he saved my life,” Rachel Dane muttered, grimly; “and you say he is your brother, Mrs. Flint?” “Yes, and he told me he recognized you as a former servant. Is it true?” “Yes; I lived with Mrs. Dawn two years. It was when her eldest child was born--before they left the South and moved North. I suppose she has several children now, ma’am?” with eager inquiry. Mrs. Flint stared at her in surprise. “Then you haven’t heard--you don’t know--that Mrs. Dawn died when little Cinthia was five years old and there never was any other child?” “Dead! Mrs. Dawn dead!” the woman cried with sharp regret, while a spasm of pain passed over her face, and she sprung excitedly to her feet. “You must have been very fond of her,” remarked Mrs. Flint, curiously. “Fond of her! Oh, yes, naturally. I lived with her some time, you see, as maid of all work. Mr. Dawn wasn’t rich then, but perhaps he’s better off now,” with keen interest. “No, and never will be; for it sort of took the heart out of him when Cinthia’s mother died. He brought me the child to raise, and went off wandering over the world to drown his sorrow.” Rachel Dane’s glum face related in surprise, as she exclaimed: “Humph! I never thought he was so fond of her as that! All the love seemed to be on her side!” “So she was fond of him?” “Fond ain’t no word for it. She just worshiped the ground he walked on. Her sun rose and set in him. She was grateful for a smile or a kind word, and mighty few she got for all that; for of all the glum, moody men I ever saw, Mr. Dawn was the worst. I believe he hated his own life!” “It was a guilty conscience maybe,” suggested Mrs. Flint, watching her out of the corner of her eye, to see how much she knew.