That evening, while the housekeeper attended her at tea, she took courage to make another inquiry, in a very low voice: 

“Is Lord Arondelle engaged, Mrs. Ross?”

She blushed crimson and turned away her head the moment she had asked the question.

“Engaged?  What—­troth-plighted do you mean, young leddy?”

“Yes,” in a very low tone.

“Bless the lass! nay, nor no thought of it,” answered the housekeeper.

“I was thinking that perhaps it would be well if he were not, that is all,” explained Salome, a little confusedly.

That night, as she undressed to retire to bed, she looked at herself in the glass critically for the first time in her life.

It was not a pretty face that was reflected there.  It was a pale, thin, dark face, that might have been redeemed by the broad, smooth forehead, shaped round by bands of dark brown hair, and lighted by the large, tender, thoughtful gray eyes, had not that forehead worn a look of anxious care, and those eyes an expression of eager inquiry.

“But then I am so plain—­so very, very plain,” she said to herself, as if uttering the negation of some preceding train of thought.

And with a deep sigh she retired to rest.

The next day Girzie Ross herself was the first to speak of the young marquis.

“I hae been thinking, young leddy, what garred ye ask me gin the young laird, were troth plighted.  And I mistrust ye must hae heard these fule stories anent his hardship, having a sweetheart at Ben Lone.  There’s nae truth in sic tales, me leddy.  No that I’m denying she’s a handsome hizzy, this Rose Cameron; but she’s nae one to mak’ the young laird forget his rank.  Ye’ll no credit sic tales, me young leddy.”

“I have heard no tales of the sort,” said Salome, looking up in surprise.

“Ay, hae ye no?  Aweel, then, its nae matter,” said the dame.

“But what tales are there, Mrs. Ross?” uneasily inquired the heiress.  And then she instantly perceived the indiscretion of her question, and regretted that she had asked it.

“Ou aye, it’s just the fule talk o’ thae gossips up by Ben Lone.  They behoove to say that’s its na the game that draws the young laird sae often to Ben Lone; but just Rab Cameron’s handsome lass, Rose, and she is a handsome quean as I said before; but nae ‘are to mak’ the young master lose his head for a’ that!  Sae ye maun na beleiv’ a word of it, me young leddy,” said Dame Girzie.

And she hastened to change the subject.

“Ah! what a power beauty is!  It can make a prince forget his royal state, and sue to a peasant girl,” sighed Salome to herself.  “I wonder—­I wonder, if there is any truth in that report?  Oh, I hope there is not, for his own sake.  I wonder where he is—­what he is doing?  But that is no affair of mine.  I have nothing at all to do with it!  I wonder if I shall ever meet him.  I wonder if he would