She could remember this time last year, when Reginald and Rose, and Sir Ronald, and all were with them--so many then, so few now; only herself and Eeny left.
The memory of the past time came back with a dulled sense of pain and misery.

She had suffered so much that the sense of suffering was blunted--there was only a desolate aching of the heart when she thought of it now.
December and the old year died out, in a great winding-sheet of snow.
January came, and its first week dragged away, and the master and mistress of the house were daily expected home.
Late in the afternoon of a January day, Kate sat at the drawing-room window, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on the white darkness.

The wind made such a racket and uproar within and without, that she did not hear a modest tap at the door, or the turning of the handle.

It was only when a familiar voice sounded close to her elbow that she started from her reverie.
"If you please, Miss Kate." "Oh, is it you, Ogden?
I did not hear you.

What is the matter ?" Mr.Ogden drew nearer and lowered his voice.
"Miss Kate, have you been upstairs to-day ?" Kate knew what he meant by this rather guarded question--had she been to see Mr.Richards?
"No," she said in alarm; "is there anything the matter ?" "I am afraid there is, Miss Kate.