CHAPTER I.
GRACE DANTON.
A low room, oblong in shape, three high narrow windows admitting the light through small, old-fashioned panes.

Just at present there was not much to admit, for it was raining hard, and the afternoon was wearing on to dusk; but even the wet half-light showed you solid mahogany furniture, old-fashioned as the windows themselves, black and shining with age and polish; a carpet soft and thick, but its once rich hues dim and faded; oil paintings of taste and merit, some of them portraits, on the papered walls, the red glow of a large coal fire glinting pleasantly on their broad gilded frames.
At one of the windows, looking out at the ceaseless rain, a young lady sat--a young lady, tall, rather stout than slender, and not pretty.

Her complexion was too sallow; her features too irregular; her dark hair too scant, and dry and thin at the parting; but her eyes were fine, large, brown and clear; her manner, self-possessed and lady-like.

She was very simply but very tastefully dressed, and looked every day of her age--twenty six.
The rainy afternoon was deepening into dismal twilight; and with her cheek resting on her hand, the young lady sat with a thoughtful face.
A long avenue, shaded by towering tamaracks, led down to stately entrance-gates; beyond, a winding road, leading to a village, not to be seen from the window.

Swelling meadows, bare and bleak now, spread away to the right and left of the thickly-wooded grounds; and beyond all, through the trees, there were glimpses of the great St.Lawrence, turbid and swollen, rushing down to the stormy Gulf.
For nearly half an hour the young lady sat by the window, her solitude undisturbed; no sign of life within or without the silent house.