But whenever they occurred, Mrs.Colwood found her own mind invincibly recalled to that name on the box of papers, which still haunted her, still brought with it a vague sense of something painful and harrowing--a breath of desolation, in strange harmony, it often seemed, with certain looks and moods of Diana.

But Mrs.Colwood searched her memory in vain.

And, indeed, after a little while, some imperious instinct even forbade her the search--so rapid and strong was the growth of sympathy with the young life which had called her to its aid.
* * * * * The day of the Marsham visit arrived--a January afternoon clear and frosty.

In the morning before they were to start, Diana seemed to be often closeted with her maid, and once in passing Miss Mallory's open door, her companion could not help seeing a consultation going on, and a snowy white dress, with black ribbons, lying on the bed.

Heretofore Diana had only appeared in black, the strict black which French dressmakers understand, for it was little more than a year since her father's death.