With the cold November sunlight flooding her room, Grace rose next morning, dressed and went down stairs. Very neat and lady-like she looked, in her spotted gingham wrapper, her snowy collar and cuffs, and her dark hair freshly braided.
A loud-voiced clock in the entrance-hall struck seven. No one seemed to be astir in the house but herself, and her footsteps echoed weirdly in the dark passages. A sleepy scullery maid was lighting the kitchen fire when she got there, gaping dismally over her work; and Grace, leaving some directions for Ma'am Ledru, the cook, departed again, this time for the dining-room, where footman James was lighting another fire. Grace opened the shutters, drew back the curtains, and let in the morning sunburst in all its glory. Then she dusted and re-arranged the furniture, swept up the marble hearth, and assisted Babette to lay the cloth for breakfast. It was invariably her morning work; and the table looked like a picture when she had done, with its old china and sparkling silver.
It was almost eight before she got through; and she ran upstairs for her bonnet and shawl, and started for her customary half-hour's walk before breakfast. She took the road leading to the village, still and deserted, and came back all glowing from the rapid exercise.
Captain Danton stood on the front steps smoking a meerschaum pipe, as she came up the avenue.
"Good morning, Hebe!" said the Captain. "The November roses are brighter in Canada than elsewhere in August!"
Grace laughed, and was going in, but he stopped her.
"Don't go yet. I want some one to talk to. Where have you been?"
"Only out for a walk, sir."
"So early! What time do you get up, pray?"
"About half-past six."