Twelve o'clock had struck before Beatrix retired to her own bare little chamber, and seated herself before the fire which she had ventured to kindle. No one had thought of her, or given her the slightest attention; Doctor Lynne, because he had been absorbed in his patient to the exclusion of every other object; the two women—mother and daughter—simply because they did not care. Beatrix unfastened her beautiful hair, and seating herself before the fire, wrapped a worsted shawl about her shoulders. The door of her room was pushed slowly open, and Serena appeared.
"Up yet?" she queried in a shrill, sharp voice. "Well, I would like to ask you a few questions, Miss Beatrix Dane. By the way, I wonder if your name is—really Dane?"
A swift flush crimsoned the girl's pure cheek.
"We will not discuss that question tonight, Serena," she said, gently. "I am quite too tired and sleepy."
Serena came and stood before the fire, resting her sallow cheek against the ugly wooden mantel.
"Tell me all about this thrilling adventure of yours," she began, abruptly; "really, it is quite too romantic!"
In a few patient words Beatrix repeated all that had occurred.
"I did not dream that Mr. Kenyon was a friend of yours," she added, in conclusion.
Serena's pale eyes sparkled.