IT is a glorious winter's day. The sky is clear, the frost ishard, the ice bears for skating.

The dining-room of the ancient mansion called Mablethorpe House,situated in the London suburb of Kensington, is famous amongartists and other persons of taste for the carved wood-work, ofItalian origin, which covers the walls on three sides. On thefourth side the march of modern improvement has broken in, andhas va ried and brightened the scene by means of a conservatory,forming an entrance to the room through a winter-garden of rareplants and flowers. On your right hand, as you stand fronting theconservatory, the monotony of the paneled wall is relieved by aquaintly patterned door of old inlaid wood, leading into thelibrary, and thence, across the great hall, to the otherreception-rooms of the house. A corresponding door on the lefthand gives access to the billiard-room, to the smoking-room nextto it, and to a smaller hall commanding one of the secondaryentrances to the building. On the left side also is the amplefireplace, surmounted by its marble mantelpiece, carved in theprofusely and confusedly ornate style of eighty years since. Tothe educated eye the dining-room, with its modern furniture andconservatory, its ancient walls and doors, and its loftymantelpiece (neither very old nor very new), presents astartling, almost a revolutionary, mixture of the decorativeworkmanship of widely differing schools. To the ignorant eye theone result produced is an impression of perfect luxury andcomfort, united in the friendliest combination, and developed onthe largest scale.

The clock has just struck two. The table is spread for luncheon.

The persons seated at the table are three in number. First, LadyJanet Roy. Second, a young lady who is her reader and companion.Third, a guest staying in the house, who has already appeared inthese pages under the name of Horace Holmcroft--attached to theGerman army as war correspondent of an English newspaper.

Lady Janet Roy needs but little introduction. Everybody with theslightest pretension to experience in London society knows LadyJanet Roy.

Who has not heard of her old lace and her priceless rubies? Whohas not admired her commanding figure, her beautifully dressedwhite hair, her wonderful black eyes, which still preserve theiryouthful brightness, after first opening on the world seventyyears since? Who has not felt the charm of her frank, easilyflowing talk, her inexhaustible spirits, her good-humored,gracious sociability of manner? Where is the modern hermit who isnot familiarly acquainted, by hearsay at least, with thefantastic novelty and humor of her opinions; with her generousencouragement of rising merit of any sort, in all ranks, high orlow; with her charities, which know no distinction between abroadand at home; with her large indulgence, which no ingratitude candiscourage, and no servility pervert? Everybody has heard of thepopular old lady--the childless widow of a long-forgotten lord.Everybody knows Lady Janet Roy.

But who knows the handsome young woman sitting on her right hand,playing with her luncheon instead of eating it? Nobody reallyknows her.

She is prettily dressed in gray poplin, trimmed with gray velvet,and set off by a ribbon of deep red tied in a bow at the throat.She is nearly as tall as Lady Janet herself, and possesses agrace and beauty of figure not always seen in women who riseabove the medium height. Judging by a certain innate grandeur inthe carriage of her head and in the expression of her largemelancholy gray eyes, believers in blood and breeding will be aptto guess that this is another noble lady. Alas! she is nothingbut Lady Janet's companion and reader. Her head, crowned with itslovely light brown hair, bends with a gentle respect when LadyJanet speaks. Her fine firm hand is easily and incessantlywatchful to supply Lady Janet's slightest wants. The oldlady--affectionately familiar with her--speaks to her as shemight speak to an adopted child. But the gratitude of thebeautiful companion has always the same restraint in itsacknowledgment of kindness; the smile of the beautiful companionhas always the same underlying sadness when it responds to LadyJanet's hearty laugh. Is there something wrong here, under thesurface? Is she suffering in mind, or suffering in body? What isthe matter with her?

The matter with her is secret remorse. This delicate andbeautiful creature pines under the slow torment of constantself-reproach.

To the mistress of the house, and to all who inhabit it or enterit, she is known as Grace Roseberry, the orphan relative bymarriage of Lady Janet Roy. To herself alone she is known as theoutcast of the London streets; the inmate of the London Refuge;the lost woman who has stolen her way back--after vainly tryingto fight her way back--to Home and Name. There she sits in thegrim shadow of her own terrible secret, disguised in anotherperson's identity, and established in another person's place.Mercy Merrick had only to dare, and to become Grace Roseberry ifshe pleased. She has dared, and she has been Grace Roseberry fornearly four months past.

At this moment, while Lady Janet is talking to Horace Holmcroft,something that has passed between them has set her thinking ofthe day when she took the first fatal step which committed her tothe fraud.

How marvelously easy of accomplishment the act of personation hadbeen! At first sight Lady Janet had yielded to the fascination ofthe noble and interesting face. No need to present the stolenletter; no need to repeat the ready-made story. The old lady hadput the letter aside unopened, and had stopped the story at thefirst words. "Your face is your introduction, my dear; yourfather can say nothing for you which you have not already saidfor yourself." There was the welcome which established her firmlyin her false identity at the outset. Thanks to her ownexperience, and thanks to the "Journal" of events at Rome,questions about her life in Canada and questions about ColonelRoseberry's illness found her ready with answers which (even ifsuspicion had existed) would have disarmed suspicion on the spot.While the true Grace was slowly and painfully winning her wayback to life on her bed in a German hospital, the false Grace waspresented to Lady Janet's friends as the relative by marriage ofthe Mistress of Mablethorpe House. From that time forward nothinghad happened to rouse in her the faintest suspicion that GraceRoseberry was other than a dead-and-buried woman. So far as shenow knew--so far as any one now knew--she might live out her lifein perfect security (if her conscience would let her), respected,distinguished, and beloved, in the position which she hadusurped.

She rose abruptly from the table. The effort of her life was toshake herself free of the remembrances which haunted herperpetually as they were haunting her now. Her memory was herworst enemy; her one refuge from it was in change of occupationand change of scene.

"May I go into the conservatory, Lady Janet?" she asked.

"Certainly, my dear."

She bent her head to her protectress, looked for a moment with asteady, compassionate attention at Horace Holmcroft, and, slowlycrossing the room, entered the winter-garden. The eyes of Horacefollowed her, as long as she was in view, with a curiouscontradictory expression of admiration and disapproval. When shehad passed out of sight the admiration vanished, but thedisapproval remained. The face of the young man contracted into afrown: he sat silent, with his fork in his hand, playing absentlywith the fragments on his plate.

"Take some French pie, Horace," said Lady Janet.

"No, thank you."

"Some more chicken, then?"

"No more chicken."

"Will nothing tempt you?"

"I will take some more wine, if you will allow me."

He filled his glass (for the fifth or sixth time) with claret,and emptied it sullenly at a draught. Lady Janet's bright eyeswatched him with sardonic attention; Lady Janet's ready tonguespoke out as freely as usual what was passing in her mind at thetime.

"The air of Kensington doesn't seem to suit you, my youngfriend," she said. "The longer you have been my guest, theoftener you fill your glass and empty your cigar-case. Those arebad signs in a young man. When you first came here you arrivedinvalided by a wound. In your place, I should not have exposedmyself to be shot, with no other object in view than describing abattle in a newspaper. I suppose tastes differ. Are you ill? Doesyour wound sti ll plague you?"

"Not in the least."

"Are you out of spirits?"

Horace Holmcroft dropped his fork, rested his elbows on thetable, and answered:

"Awfully."

Even Lady Janet's large toleration had its limits. It embracedevery human offense except a breach of good manners. She snatchedup the nearest weapon of correction at hand--a tablespoon--andrapped her young friend smartly with it on the arm that wasnearest to her.

"My table is not the club table," said the old lady. "Hold upyour head. Don't look at your fork--look at me. I allow nobody tobe out of spirits in My house. I consider it to be a reflectionon Me. If our quiet life here doesn't suit you, say so plainly,and find something else to do. There is employment to be had, Isuppose--if you choose to apply for it? You needn't smile. Idon't want to see your teeth--I want an answer."

Horace admitted, with all needful gravity, that there wasemployment to be had. The war between France and Germany, heremarked, was still going on: the newspaper had offered to employhim again in the capacity of correspondent.

"Don't speak of the newspapers and the war!" cried Lady Janet,with a sudden explosion of anger, which was genuine anger thistime. "I detest the newspapers! I won't allow the newspapers toenter this house. I lay the whole blame of the blood shed betweenFrance and Germany at their door."

Horace's eyes opened wide in amazement. The old lady wasevidently in earnest. "What can you possibly mean?" he asked."Are the newspapers responsible for the war?"

"Entirely responsible, "answered Lady Janet. "Why, you don'tunderstand the age you live in! Does anybody do anything nowadays(fighting included) without wishing to see it in the newspapers?_I_ subscribe to a charity; _thou_ art presented with atestimonial; _he_ preaches a sermon; _we_ suffer a grievance;_you_ make a discovery; _they_ go to church and get married. AndI, thou, he; we, you, they, all want one and the same thing--wewant to see it in the papers. Are kings, soldiers, anddiplomatists exceptions to the general rule of humanity? Notthey! I tell you seriously, if the newspapers of Europe had oneand all decided not to take the smallest notice in print of thewar between France and Germany, it is my firm conviction the warwould have come to an end for want of encouragement long since.Let the pen cease to advertise the sword, and I, for one, can seethe result. No report--no fighting."

"Your views have the merit of perfect novelty, ma'am," saidHorace. "Would you object to see them in the newspapers?"

Lady Janet worsted her young friend with his own weapons.

"Don't I live in the latter part of the nineteenth century?" sheasked. "In the newspapers, did you say? In large type, Horace, ifyou love me!"

Horace changed the subject.

"You blame me for being out of spirits," he said; "and you seemto think it is because I am tired of my pleasant life atMablethorpe House. I am not in the least tired, Lady Janet." Helooked toward the conservatory: the frown showed itself on hisface once more. "The truth is," he resumed, "I am not satisfiedwith Grace Roseberry."

"What has Grace done?"

"She persists in prolonging our engagement. Nothing will persuadeher to fix the day for our marriage."

It was true! Mercy had been mad enough to listen to him, and tolove him. But Mercy was not vile enough to marry him under herfalse character, and in her false name. Between three and fourmonths had elapsed since Horace had been sent home from the war,wounded, and had found the beautiful Englishwoman whom he hadbefriended in France established at Mablethorpe House. Invited tobecome Lady Janet's guest (he had passed his holidays as aschool-boy under Lady Janet's roof)--free to spend the idle timeof his convalescence from morning to night in Mercy'ssociety--the impression originally produced on him in a Frenchcottage soon strengthened into love. Before the month was outHorace had declared himself, and had discovered that he spoke towilling ears. From that moment it was only a question ofpersisting long enough in the resolution to gain his point. Themarriage engagement was ratified--most reluctantly on the lady'sside--and there the further progress of Horace Holmcroft's suitcame to an end. Try as he might, he failed to persuade hisbetrothed wife to fix the day for the marriage. There were noobstacles in her way. She had no near relations of her own toconsult. As a connection of Lady Janet's by marriage, Horace'smother and sisters were ready to receive her with all the honorsdue to a new member of the family. No pecuniary considerationsmade it necessary, in this case, to wait for a favorable time.Horace was an only son; and he had succeeded to his father'sestate with an ample income to support it. On both sides alikethere was absolutely nothing to prevent the two young people frombeing married as soon as the settlements could be drawn. And yet,to all appearance, here was a long engagement in prospect, withno better reason than the lady's incomprehensible perversity toexplain the delay. "Can you account for Grace's conduct?" askedLady Janet. Her manner changed as she put the question. Shelooked and spoke like a person who was perplexed and annoyed

"I hardly like to own it," Horace answered, "but I am afraid shehas some motive for deferring our marriage which she cannotconfide either to you or to me."

Lady Janet started.

"What makes you think that?" she asked.

"I have once or twice caught her in tears. Every now andthen--sometimes when she is talking quite gayly--she suddenlychanges color and becomes silent and depressed. Just now, whenshe left the table (didn't you notice it?), she looked at me inthe strangest way--almost as if she was sorry for me. What dothese things mean?"

Horace's reply, instead of increasing Lady Janet's anxiety,seemed to relieve it. He had observed nothing which she had notnoticed herself. "You foolish boy!" she said, "the meaning isplain enough. Grace has been out of health for some time past.The doctor recommends change of air. I shall take her away withme."

"It would be more to the purpose," Horace rejoined, "if I tookher away with me. She might consent, if you would only use yourinfluence. Is it asking too much to ask you to persuade her? Mymother and my sisters have written to her, and have produced noeffect. Do me the greatest of all kindnesses--speak to herto-day!" He paused, and possessing himself of Lady Janet's hand,pressed it entreatingly. "You have always been so good to me," hesaid, softly, and pressed it again.

The old lady looked at him. It was impossible to dispute thatthere were attractions in Horace Holmcroft's face which made itwell worth looking at. Many a woman might have envied him hisclear complexion, his bright blue eyes, and the warm amber tintin his light Saxon hair. Men--especially men skilled in observingphysiognomy--might have noticed in the shape of his forehead andin the line of his upper lip the signs indicative of a moralnature deficient in largeness and breadth--of a mind easilyaccessible to strong prejudices, and obstinate in maintainingthose prejudices in the face of conviction itself.

To the observation of women these remote defects were too farbelow the surface to be visible. He charmed the sex in general byhis rare personal advantages, and by the graceful deference ofhis manner. To Lady Janet he was endeared, not by his own meritsonly, but by old associations that were connected with him. Hisfather had been one of her many admirers in her young days.Circumstances had parted them. Her marriage to another man hadbeen a childless marriage. In past times, when the boy Horace hadcome to her from school, she had cherished a secret fancy (tooabsurd to be communicated to any living creature) that he oughtto have been _her_ son, and might have been her son, if she hadmarried his father! She smiled charmingly, old as she was--sheyielded as his mother might have yielded--when the young man tookher hand and entreated her to interest herself in his marriage."Must I really speak to Grace?" she asked , with a gentleness oftone and manner far from characteristic, on ordinary occasions,of the lady of Mablethorpe House. Horace saw that he had gainedhis point. He sprang to his feet; his eyes turned eagerly in thedirection of the conservatory; his handsome face was radiant withhope. Lady Janet (with her mind full of his father) stole a lastlook at him, sighed as she thought of the vanished days, andrecovered herself.

"Go to the smoking-room," she said, giving him a push toward thedoor. "Away with you, and cultivate the favorite vice of thenineteenth century." Horace attempted to express his gratitude."Go and smoke!" was all she said, pushing him out. "Go andsmoke!"

Left by herself, Lady Janet took a turn in the room, andconsidered a little.

Horace's discontent was not unreasonable. There was really noexcuse for the delay of which he complained. Whether the younglady had a special motive for hanging back, or whether she wasmerely fretting because she did not know her own mind, it was, ineither case, necessary to come to a distinct understanding,sooner or later, on the serious question of the marriage. Thedifficulty was, how to approach the subject without givingoffense. "I don't understand the young women of the presentgeneration," thought Lady Janet. "In my time, when we were fondof a man, we were ready to marry him at a moment's notice. Andthis is an age of progress! They ought to be readier still."

Arriving, by her own process of induction, at this inevitableconclusion, she decided to try what her influence couldaccomplish, and to trust to the inspiration of the moment forexerting it in the right way. "Grace!" she called out,approaching the conservatory door. The tall, lithe figure in itsgray dress glided into view, and stood relieved against the greenbackground of the winter-garden.

"Did your ladyship call me?"

"Yes; I want to speak to you. Come and sit down by me."

With those words Lady Janet led the way to a sofa, and placed hercompanion by her side.