its aroused mistress was only aroused in time to hear a consolatory whisper from one of her companions—­’Poor little Kathleen Mavourneen, by what misfortune did you get in here?  There—­be still and go to sleep.’  And as no more was heard, on either side, it seemed probable the advice had been followed.  At any rate no more was seen of the kitten, not even when the stage coach swept round the level on which the house stands, and drew up at the door, where the light of lamps gave opportunity for observation.  Wych Hazel only saw that her neighbour flung a shawl demurely enough over one shoulder and arm, where the cat might have been, and letting himself out, proceeded to do the same office with full dexterity though with one hand for the little cat’s mistress.

Ensconcing herself even closer than ever in mantle and veil, Wych Hazel passed on through the gay groups to the foot of the stairs, there paused.

‘Mr. Falkirk,’ she said softly, ’I want my tea up stairs, please,’—­and passed on after the maid.

‘So,’ said one of the loiterers in the hall approaching Mr. Falkirk, ’so my dear sir, you’ve brought Miss Kennedy!  At last!—­Now for candidates.  If the face match the hand and foot, the supply will be heavy.’

CHAPTER V.

IN THE FOG.

There was mist everywhere.  On the winding bed of the river, lying piled like a gray eider-down coverlet; folding itself over the forest trees; floating up to the Mountain House, and hanging about the rocks.  But overhead the sky looked bright, and Sirius waved his torch which the vapour had filled with coloured lights.  As yet sunrise was not.

In front of the house, where a grey rock started from the very edge of the bank, spreading a platform above the precipice, sat Wych Hazel; her feet so nearly over the rock that they seemed resting on the mist itself; her white scarf falling back from her head like a wreath of lighted coloured vapour.  Perhaps there were no other strangers to the Mountain House within its walls; perhaps the morning was too chill; perhaps all of the ‘candidates’ were on the other side; for she sat alone.  Until the flaming torch of Sirius paled, until the dawn began to shimmer and gleam among the fleeces of mist,—­until they parted here and there before the arrows of light, showing spires and houses and a bit of the river in the far distance.  So fair, unfeatured, misty and sparkling at once, lay life before the young gazer.  Mr. Falkirk might have moralized thus, standing close behind her as he was, still and silent; but it is not likely he did; useless moralizing was never in Mr. Falkirk’s way.

’How do you like your fortune, Miss Hazel, as you find it at present?’ he said.

’Very undefined, sir.  Good morning, Mr. Falkirk—­what made you get up?’

‘My knowledge of your character.’

‘So attractive, sir?’ She glanced up at him, then looked away over the mist, with her arms crossed over her bosom and a grave look of thought settling down upon her young face; as if womanhood were dawning upon her, with its mysterious opalescent light.