"I do not think my boy would know this name at sight," was Marah's thought as she twirled the card in her hand and stood waiting the entrance of the visitor, whose step was now heard coming up the stairs. Soon the door was thrown open and the stranger entered.
Marah, habitually shy in the presence of strangers, dropped her eyes before she had fairly taken in the figure of a tall, handsome, dark-complexioned, distinguished-looking man, somewhat past middle age, and arrayed in a rich military cloak, and carrying in his hand a military cap.
The servant who had admitted him had scarcely retired when Marah looked up and her eyes and those of the stranger met—and—
"Marah Rocke!!!"
"Colonel Le Noir!!!"
Burst simultaneously from the lips of each.
Le Noir first recovered himself, and, holding out both hands, advanced toward her with a smile as if to greet an old friend.
But Marah, shrinking from him in horror, turned and tottered to the farthest window, where, leaning her head against the sash, she moaned:
"Oh, my heart: my heart! Is this the wolf to whom my lamb must be committed?"
As she moaned these words she was aware of a soft step at her side and a low voice murmuring: