Some two hours later, and just as the dusk of the short winter day was falling, Kate came out of her brother's sick-room. She looked jaded and worn, as she lingered for a moment at the hall-window to watch the grayish-yellow light fade out of the sky. She had spent the best part of the day in the close chamber, and the bright outer air seemed unspeakably refreshing. She went to her room, threw a large cloth mantle round her shoulders, drew the fur-trimmed hood over her head, and went out.
The frozen fish-pond glittered like a sheet of ivory in the fading light; and walking slowly around it, she saw a little familiar figure, robed like a nun, in black. She had hardly seen the pale seamstress for weeks, she had been too much absorbed in other things; but now, glad of companionship, she crossed over to the fish-pond and joined her. As she drew closer, and could see the girl's face in the cold, pale twilight, she was struck with its pallor and indescribably mournful expression.
"You poor, pale child!" Miss Danton said; "you look like some stray spirit wandering ghostily around this place. What is the matter now, that you look so wretchedly forlorn?"
Agnes looked up in the beautiful, pitying face, with her heart in her eyes.
"Nothing," she said, tremulously, "but the old trouble, that never leaves me. I think sometimes I am the most unhappy creature in the whole wide world."
"Every heart knoweth its own bitterness," Miss Danton said, steadily. "Trouble seems to be the lot of all. But yours—you have never told me what it is, and I think I would like to know."
They were walking together round the frozen pond, and the face of the seamstress was turned away from the dying light. Kate could not see it, but she could hear the agitation in her voice when she spoke.
"I am almost afraid to tell you. I am afraid, for oh, Miss Danton! I have deceived you."
"Deceived me, Agnes?"
"Yes; I came here in a false character. Oh, don't be angry, please; but I am not Miss Darling—I am a married woman."