Pocahontas, duly notified of Norma’s approach by the vigilant Sawney, met her guest at the door, and drew her in with words of welcome, and praises of her bravery in venturing abroad in such gloomy weather.  The girls did not kiss each other—­as is too much the custom with their sex.  Pocahontas did not like effusive embraces; a kiss with her meant a good deal.

In the sitting-room Mrs. Mason and Berkeley added their welcome, and established Norma in the coziest corner of the hearth, where the fire would comfort without scorching her.  Pocahontas stooped to remove her furs and wraps, but Norma staid her hand; it would not be worth while, she said; she had only come to call.

“Do stay to tea!” entreated Pocahontas.  “Berke will take you home afterward.  We haven’t looked on a white face except our own for two whole days.  We are pining for change and distraction, and beginning to hate each other from very ennui.  Take pity on us and stay.”

“Yes, my dear, you must consent,” added Mrs. Mason.  “You haven’t taken tea with us for a long time.  Berkeley, help Norma with her wrappings.  And, Princess, suppose you run and tell Rachel to make waffles for tea.  Norma is so fond of them.”

Norma yielded to their persuasions, feeling a little curiously, but hardening her heart.  What she had come to say, she intended to say; but it would be best to wait an opportunity.  She let Berkeley take her wraps, and established herself comfortably, bent on making the time pass pleasantly, and herself thoroughly agreeable.

The meal was a merry one, for Norma exerted herself unusually, and was ably seconded by Pocahontas, who, for some reason, appeared in brilliant spirits.  After tea they discovered that it was snowing heavily.  The threatened storm had come—­evenly, slowly, in a thick, impenetrable cloud, the white flakes fell, without haste, excitement or the flurry of wind.  Already the ground was covered and the trees were bending with the weight of the white garment the sky was throwing over them.  It was unfit weather for a lady to encounter, or indeed for anything feminine to be abroad in, save a witch on a broomstick.  Norma was fain to accept Mrs. Mason’s invitation and remain for the night at Lanarth.

When the two girls, in dressing gowns and slippers, sat over the fire in Pocahontas’s room, brushing out their long hair, Norma found the opportunity for which she had lain in wait the entire evening.  It was the hour for confidences, the house was quiet, the inmates all dispersed to their several couches.  Norma, brush in hand and hair flowing in a heavy, black veil around her, had quitted her own room across the passage, and established herself in a low rocking-chair beside Pocahontas’s bright fire.  She was far too clever a diplomatist to introduce her subject hastily; she approached it gradually from long range—­stalked it delicately with skillful avoidance of surprise or