August evening I suppose all rooms look
pretty much, alike."

"Oh, sister, no!" Gabrielle cried. "Have
you never noticed the different kinds of
twilight?  Here, in this house, it is always
winter twilight, quite colourless, and cold,
and cheerless, but in other places, where the
sun has shone, it is warm and soft and
beautiful; even for an hour or longer after
the sun has quite set, a faint rosy tinge, like a
warm breath, seems to rest upon the air, and
to shed such peace and almost holiness over
everything. That was the kind of twilight,
I think of it so often, that there used to be at
home. I remember, so very, very long ago, how
I used to sit on the ground at my mother's feet
in the summer evenings, looking out through
the open window at the dear old garden,
where everything was so very still and quiet
that it seemed to me the very trees must have
fallen asleep, and how she used to tell us fairy
stories in the twilight. Sisters, do yourememberi
it?" Gabrielle asked, her voice tremulous,
but not altogether, so it seemed, with
emotion that the recollection had called up.

"I do," Miss Vaux said, in a voice clear and cold,
and hard as ice. From Bertha
there came no answer.

"It is one of the few things I recollect
about her," Gabrielle said again very softly,
"the rest is almost all indistinct, like a half-
forgotten dream. I was only four years old,
you say, Joanna, when she died?"

"You know it; why do you ask?"
Miss Vaux said, harshly and quickly.

There was a pause. It was so dark that
none of their faces could be seen, but one
might have told, from the quick nervous way
in which unconsciously Gabrielle was clasping
and unclasping her hand, that there was some
struggle going on within her. At last, very
timidly, her voice trembling, though she tried
hard to steady it, she spoke again.

"Sisters, do not be angry with me. Often
lately I have wished so very much to ask you
some things about my mother. Oh, let me ask
them now. Dear sisters, tell me why it is
that you never speak to me, or almost allow
me to speak, of her? Is it because it grieves
you so much to think of her death, or is there
any other cause"—her voice sank so low
that it was almost a whisper—"why her
name is never mentioned amongst us? I have
kept silence about this for so long, for I knew
you did not wish to speak of it; but, oh
sisters, tell me now! Ought I not to know
about my own mother?"

"Hush!" Miss Vaux said, in a voice stern
and harsh. "Gabrielle, you do not know
what you are asking. Let it be enough for
you to learn that anything I could tell you of
your mother could give you nothing but pain
to hear—pain which we would gladly spare
you yet, knowing, as we so well do, the great
bitterness of it. I ask you for all our sakes,
yours as much as ours, never again be the first
to mention your mother's name!"

She had risen from her seat, and stood upright
before Gabrielle, the outline of her tall
dark figure showing clearly against the
window. In her voice there was not one
trace of emotion; her whole manner was hard
and cold and unimpassioned; like that of one
who had, long ago, subdued all gentle feelings.

Gabrielle's tears were falling fast, but she
made no answer to Miss Vaux's words. She
stood much in awe of both her sisters, especially
of the eldest, and knew well how
hopeless all remonstrance with her would be.

After a few moments Bertha laid her hand
on Gabrielle's shoulder, saying,with something
of gentleness in her voice:

"You distress yourself too much, my child.
Trust more in us, Gabrielle. We would try
to keep sorrow from you; do not make it
impossible."

"Yes, yes; I know it is meant kindly
towards me," Gabrielle said gently, "but
you forget that I suffer from being in
ignorance. I cannot forget that you are concealing
something from me."

"Which I would to God I could conceal
from you for ever," Miss Vaux said.
"Gabrielle, foolish child, do not seek for sorrow;
it will come quickly enough of itself;" and
she turned from her with some muttered
words that her sister could not hear.

Gabrielle tried to speak again; but Bertha
raised her hand warningly, and they were all
silent; Gabrielle with her face bowed down
upon her hands in the thick twilight.

"We will close the window and have
lights," Bertha said, after some time had
passed; "the night air is getting cold."

With a deep sigh Gabrielle rose, and drew
down the open window, standing there for
some minutes alone, and looking out upon the
dark evergreen grove.

CHAPTER II.

"I am going into the village," Miss Vaux
said. "If you will tell me where that poor
woman lives you were speaking of last night,
Gabrielle, I will call upon her now."

"Let me go with you," Gabrielle said
quickly. "I told her we would come together.
Wait for me one minute, and I will be ready."

"I scarcely see the need of it. You are
looking pale and ill, Gabrielle. I would
advise you to stay in the house and rest."

"I have a headache, and the air will do it
good," Gabrielle answered. "Let me go,
sister."

"As you will, then," Miss Vaux said, and
Gabrielle went away to dress.

She had not yet recovered her usual gay
spirits; but was still grave, quiet, and
apparently occupied with her own thoughts, and
the two walked side by side, almost without
speaking, along the little path over the field
which lay between their house and the
village. It was a very bright sunny summer's
day, too hot, indeed, for walking, but beautiful
to look at. The heat seemed to weary