By the first of March, however, I was again in glowing health, and no trace remained, except those carefully-concealed scars on my shoulder, of my fearful injury.

Soon after this accident had occurred, two circumstances of interest had taken place in our household and vicinity.  One of these was the return of Claude Bainrothe from abroad, and the other the rather mysterious visit of a gentleman, young and handsome, but poorly clad, who had inquired for my step-mother, Mrs. Constance Monfort, and on hearing, to his surprise and grief, apparently, that she was dead, had gone away again without requesting an interview with any other member of the family.

He had met Evelyn at the door just as she was about to step into the carriage, dressed for visiting, and had said to her, merely (as she asserted), as he turned away, evidently in sorrow: 

“I am the brother of Mrs. Monfort, once Constance Glen—­now, as you tell me, no more.  What children did she leave?”

“One only—­a daughter,” was Evelyn’s reply.  “Not visible to-day, however, since she was severely burned a few days since, and is still confined to her bed; not dangerously ill, though.”

“I passed on then, as quickly as I could,” said Evelyn, “for I saw no end to questioning, and had an appointment to keep.  I said, however, civilly, ’Suppose you call another time, when papa is disengaged.  To-day he could not possibly receive you,’ pausing on the steps for a reply.  This was of course all that was required of me, but he merely lifted his hat with a cool ‘Thank you, Miss Monfort,’ and went his way silently.  He evidently mistook me for you, Miriam, and I did not undeceive him.  My greatest oversight was in forgetting to ask for his card; but his name was Glen, of course, as hers was, so it would have been a mere form.”

“The whole transaction seems to have been inconsiderate on your part, Evelyn,” I remarked, as mildly as I could.  “Mamma’s brother!  Oh, what would I not have given to have seen him!  Did he never return, and where is he now?”

“No, never that I know of, and he has disappeared.  He walked by here a few days later, Franklin says, when he was standing at the door with papa’s tilbury, still very poorly dressed, but neither stopped nor spoke.  You could not have seen him in your condition, at any rate, Miriam, so you need not look so vexed; and I had no idea of having papa annoyed so soon after his severe attack.  Besides, I want no such claims established over Mabel.  She is ours, and need desire no other relations.  The next thing would have been an application for money, or board and lodging, or some such thing, no doubt.”

“How old did he seem to be, Evelyn?” I asked, conquering a qualm of feeling at these words, and inexpressibly interested in her relation.

“I’m sure I can’t tell, Miriam; about twenty-five or six, I suppose; the usual age of all such bores.  You know mamma was seven or eight and twenty when she died, and she said he was much younger than herself, you may remember.”