"Yes, sir."
"I'll call on them, then—they don't know I'm here—and see if a little company won't enliven our long Canadian winter. You three, Grace, Rose and Eeny, have been living here like nonettes long enough. We must try and alter things a little for you."
The Captain's good-natured efforts to draw his taciturn housekeeper out did not succeed very well. She had that unsocial failing of reserved natures, silence habitually; and her reserve was always at its worst in the presence of the Captain's brilliant daughter. That youthful beauty fixed her blue eyes now and then on the dark, downcast face with an odd look—very like a look of aversion.
"What kind of person is this Miss Grace of yours, Eeny?" she asked her sister, after breakfast. "Very stupid, isn't she?"
"Stupid! Oh, dear, no! Grace is the dearest, best girl in the world, except you, Kate. I don't know how we should ever get on without her."
"I didn't know," said Kate, rather coldly; "she is so silent and impenetrable. Come! You promised to show me through the house."
They were alone in the dining-room. She walked over to the fire, and stood looking thoughtfully up at the two portraits hanging over the mantel—Captain Danton at twenty-seven, and his wife at twenty-four.
"Poor mamma!" Kate said, with a rare tenderness in her voice. "How pretty she was! Do you remember her, Eeny?"
"No," said Eeny. "You know I was such a little thing, Kate. All I know about her is what Margery tells me."
"Who is Margery?"