She listened with dumb fear in her eyes. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant. His glance came up again and met hers. “One has to live and learn,” she remarked, with a passable imitation of her father’s manner.
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