house, with damp unhealthy evergreens
planted in front, upon which the sun never
shone—summer or winter; the flags which
paved the front of the door and the steps of
the door were greened over with cheerless
moss; and fungi grew up in the seams of the
pavement. The windows, with their thick
black clumsy frames, almost all faced the
north, so that the cold dark rooms were
never lighted up with sunshine; but looked
even more dreary in the summer time, with
the empty fireless grates, than on winter
days. Yet the house seemed to suit well the
tastes of the two elder of the Misses Vaux.

It had stood empty for some years before
they took it; for its last occupier had
committed suicide in one of the rooms—it was
just the house for such a thing to have
happened in—and the superstitious horror which
the event created in the neighbourhood,
coupled with the dark and cheerless appearance
of the house, were the causes why it
remained so long unlet and so much neglected.

About six years ago, the Misses Vaux had
come quite strangers to the village; and, in a
short time, were settled as tenants of the
lonely house. They were young women then
—not more than three and four-and-twenty;
but already grave, severe, and stern. They
dressed always in mourning, and rarely was
a smile seen on their cold lips; but they
spent their time almost entirely in performing
acts of charity, in visiting the sick, and
in making clothes for the poor. For miles
round they were known and looked up to
with mingled reverence and awe. But theirs
was a strange soulless charity—more like the
performance of heavy penance than of acts of
love.

There was a mystery about their antecedents.
No one knew whence they came, or who they
were; they had neither relations nor friends;
they lived alone in their gloomy house, and
only at long intervals—sometimes of many
months—did they receive even a single letter.
They were two sad, weary women to whom
life seemed to bring no pleasure, but to be
only a burden, which it was their stern duty
to bear uncomplainingly for a certain number
of years.

Gabrielle—the beautiful, sunny-natured
Gabrielle—was not with them when they first
came to the village; but three years ago she
had joined them, and the three lived
together since.  She was then about fifteen;
—a bright, joyous creature, without
a thought of sadnes in her, or the faintest
shadow of the gloom that rested on her sisters.
Even now, although she had lived for three
years in the chilling atmosphere that
surrounded them, she was still unchanged,
almost, even  as much a child—as gay, thoughtless,
and full of joy, as when she first came.
It reminded one of a snowdrop blooming in
the winter, forcing itself through the very
midst of the surrounding snow, to see how
she had grown up with this cold, wintry
environment. But the gloomy house looked
less gloomy now that Gabrielle lived in it.
There was one little room, with a window
looking to the south (one of three that had a
sunny aspect), which she took to be her own,
and there she would sit for many hours,
working by the open window, singing
joyously, with the sunlight streaming over her,
and the breath of the sweet flowers that she
had planted in a garden as close under her
window as the sun would come, stealing
deliciously into the room. It was quite a
pleasant little nook, with a view far over
green undulating hills and yellow waving
corn-fields, which sparkled and glittered like
plains of moving gold in the deep bright
rays of the setting sun. And Gabrielle,
sitting here and gazing on them, or roaming
alone amongst them, was quite happy and
light-hearted. Even her stern sisters were
thawed and softened by her presence; and,
I think, felt as much love for her as it was
in their nature to feel for any one, for indeed
it was impossible to resist altogether her
cheering influence, which spread itself over
everything around her with the warmth of
sunshine.

On this evening on which our tale begins,
and for some days previous to it, Gabrielle
had been graver and quieter than she often
was. She joined her sisters now in the
common sitting-room; and with her work in
her hand, sat down  beside them near the
window, but she answered their few questions
about her evening ramble with only feigned
gaiety, as though she was occupied with other
thoughts, or was too weary to talk; and,
presently, as the twilight gathered round
them, they all sank into silence. The one
window looked across the road in which the
house stood, to a dark plantation of stunted
trees that grew opposite: a very gloomy
place, which, even in the hottest summer
had always a chill, wintry feeling, and
from which even now a damp air was rising;
and, entering the open window, was spreading
itself through the room.

"How unlike a summer evening it is in
this room!" Gabrielle suddenly broke the
silence by exclaiming almost impatiently.
"I wish I could, even for once, see a ray of
sunshine in it. I have often wondered how
any one could build a house in this situation."

"And do you never imagine that there are
people who care less for sunshine than
you do, Gabrielle?" Bertha asked, rather
sadly.

"Yes, certainly, sister, but still it seems to
me almost like a sin to shut out the beautiful
heaven's sunlight as it has been shut out in
this house. Winter and summer it is always
alike. If it was not for my own bright little
room up stairs, I think I never should be gay
here at all."

"Well. Gabrielle, you need not complain
of the gloominess of this room just now,"
Miss Vaux said. "At nine o'clock on an