"Would you like to have some one try and trace her out for you? Her fate may be ascertained yet. I will go to New York, if you wish, and do my best."
"No, no," was the reply. "What use would it be? If you discovered her to-morrow, what would it avail? Better let her fate remain forever unknown than find my worst fears realized. False, wicked, degraded, as I know her, I cannot forget how madly I loved her—I cannot forget that I love her yet."
They walked up and down the tamarack-walk in the frosty starlight, all still and peaceful around them—the sky, sown with silver stars, so serene—the earth, white with its snowy garb, all hushed and tranquil—nothing disturbed but the heart of man, all things at peace but his storm-tossed soul.
"I am keeping you here," said Harry, "and it is growing late, and cold. I am selfish and exacting in my misery, as, I fear, poor Kate knows. Let us go in."
They walked to the house. When they entered, Reginald secured the door, and the two young men went upstairs together. Ogden sat sleepily on a chair, and started up at sight of them. Harry Danton held out his hand, with a faint sad smile.
"Good night," he said; "I am glad to have added another to the list of my friends. I hope we shall meet soon again. Good night, and pleasant dreams."
"We shall meet as often as you wish," answered Reginald. "You have my deepest sympathy. Good night."
The white, despairing face haunted Reginald Stanford's dreams all night, as if he had indeed been a ghost. He was glad when morning came, and he could escape the spectres of dream-land in the business of everyday life. He stopped in the hall on his way down stairs, to look out at the morning, wet, and cold, and dark, and miserable. As he stood, some one passed him, going up to the upper bedroom regions of the servants—a small, pallid little creature, looking like a stray spirit in its black dress—Agnes Darling.
"Another ghost?" thought Mr. Stanford, running down stairs. "They are not far wrong who call Danton Hall a haunted house."