trappings of woe; yet it was the same face that was now rigidly upturned to the bare thatch and rafters of that crumbling cottage, herself its only companion.  She lifted her delicate veil with both hands, and, stooping down, kissed the hard, cold forehead, without a tremor.  Then she dropped her veil again over her dry eyes, readjusted it in the little, cheap, black-framed mirror that hung against the wall, and opened the door as the granddaughter returned.  The gentleman was just coming from the station.

“Remember to look out for me at York,” said Miss Desborough, extending her gloved hand.  “Good-by till then.”  The young girl respectfully touched the ends of Miss Desborough’s fingers, dropped a curtsy, and Miss Desborough rejoined the consul.

“You have barely time to return to the Priory and see to your luggage,” said the consul, “if you must go.  But let me hope that you have changed your mind.”

“I have not changed my mind,” said Miss Desborough quietly, “and my baggage is already packed.”  After a pause, she said thoughtfully, “I’ve been wondering”—­

“What?” said the consul eagerly.

“I’ve been wondering if people brought up to speak in a certain dialect, where certain words have their own significance and color, and are part of their own lives and experience—­if, even when they understand another dialect, they really feel any sympathy with it, or the person who speaks it?”

“Apropos of”—­asked the consul.

“These people I’ve just left!  I don’t think I quite felt with them, and I guess they didn’t feel with me.”

“But,” said the consul laughingly, “you know that we Americans speak with a decided dialect of our own, and attach the same occult meaning to it.  Yet, upon my word, I think that Lord Beverdale—­or shall I say Lord Algernon?—­would not only understand that American word ‘guess’ as you mean it, but would perfectly sympathize with you.”

Miss Desborough’s eyes sparkled even through her veil as she glanced at her companion and said, “I guess not.”

As the “tea” party had not yet returned, it fell to the consul to accompany Miss Desborough and her maid to the station.  But here he was startled to find a collection of villagers upon the platform, gathered round two young women in mourning, and an ominous-looking box.  He mingled for a moment with the crowd, and then returned to Miss Desborough’s side.

“Really,” he said, with a concern that was scarcely assumed, “I ought not to let you go.  The omens are most disastrous!  You came here to a death; you are going away with a funeral!”

“Then it’s high time I took myself off!” said the lady lightly.

“Unless, like the ghostly monk, you came here on a mission, and have fulfilled it.”

“Perhaps I have.  Good-by!”

*****