There were no more letters from Mrs. Guy Thornton until the next Christmas, when another box went to little Daisy, and was acknowledged as before. Then another year glided and a third box went to Daisy, and then one summer afternoon in the August following, there came to Saratoga a gay party from New York, and among other names registered at one of the large hotels was that of Miss McDonald. It seemed to be her party, or at least she was its center, and the one to whom the others deferred as to their head. Daisy was in perfect health that summer, and in unusually good spirits; and when in the evening, yielding to the entreaties of her friends, she entered the ball-room, clad in flowing robes of blue and white, with costly jewels on her neck and arms, she was acknowledged at once as the star and belle of the evening. She did not dance,—she rarely did that now, but after a short promenade through the room she took a seat near the door, and was watching the gay dancers, when she felt her arm softly touched, and turning saw her maid standing by her, with an anxious, frightened look upon her face.

"Come, please, come quick," she said, in a whisper; and following her out, Miss McDonald asked what was the matter.

"This, you must go away at once. I'll pack your things. I promised not to tell, but I must. I can't see your pretty face all spoiled and ugly."

"What do you mean?" the lady asked, and after a little questioning she made out from the girl's statement, that in strolling on the back piazza she had stumbled upon her first cousin, of whose whereabouts she had known nothing for a long time.

This girl, Marie, had, it seemed, come to Saratoga a week or ten days before, with her master's family consisting of his wife and two little children. As the hotel was crowded, they were assigned rooms for the night in a distant part of the house, with a promise of something much better on the morrow. In the morning, however, the lady, who had not been well for some days, was too sick to leave her bed, and the doctor, who was called in to see her, pronounced the disease,—here Sarah stopped and gasped for breath, and looked behind her and all ways, and finally whispered a word which made even Miss McDonald start a little and wince with fear.

"He do call it the very-o-lord," Sarah said, "but Mary says it's the very old one himself. She knows, she has had it, and you can't put down a pin where it didn't have its claws. They told the landlord, who was for putting them straight out of doors, but the doctor said the lady must not be moved,—it was sure death to do it. It was better to keep quiet, and not make a panic. Nobody need to know it in the house, and their rooms are so far from everybody that nobody would catch it. So he let them stay, and the gentleman takes care of her, and Mary keeps the children in the next room, and carries and brings the things, and keeps away from everybody. Two of the servants know it, and they've had it, and don't tell, and she said I mustn't, nor come that side of the house, but I must tell you so that you can leave to-morrow. The lady is very bad, and nobody takes care of her but Mr. Thornton. Mary takes things to the door, and leaves them outside where he can get them."

"What did you call the gentleman?" Miss McDonald asked, her voice faltering and her cheek blanching a little.

"Mr. Thornton, from Cuylerville, a place far in the country," was the girl's reply; and then, without waiting to hear more, Miss McDonald darted away, and going to the office, turned the leaves of the Register to the date of ten or eleven days ago, and read with a beating heart and quick coming breath:

"Mr. and Mrs. Guy Thornton, two children and servant. No. -- and --."

Yes, it was Guy; there could be no mistake, and in an instant her resolution was taken. Calling her maid, she sent for her shawl and hat, and then, bidding her follow, walked away in the moonlight. The previous summer when at Saratoga, she had received medical treatment from Dr. Schwartz, whom she knew well, and to whose office she directed her steps. He seemed surprised to see her at that hour, but greeted her cordially, asked when she came to town and what he could do for her.

"Tell me if this is still a safeguard," she said, baring her beautiful white arm, and showing a large round scar. "Will this insure me against disease?"

The doctor's face flushed, and he looked uneasily at her as he took her arm in his hand and examining the scar closely, said:

"The points are still distinct. I should say the vaccination was thorough."

"But another will be safer. Have you fresh matter?" Daisy asked, and he replied:

"Yes, some just from a young, healthy cow. I never use the adulterated stuff which has been humanized. How do I know what humors may be lurking in the blood? Why, some of the fairest, sweetest babies are full of scrofula."

He was going on further with his discussion, when Daisy, who knew his peculiarities, interrupted him.

"Never mind the lecture now. Vaccinate me quick, and let me go."

It was soon done; the doctor saying, as he put away his vial:

"You were safe without it, I think, and with it you may have no fears whatever."

He looked at her curiously again as if asking what she knew or feared, and observing the look, Daisy said to him:

"Do you attend the lady at the hotel?"

He bowed affirmatively and glanced uneasily at Sarah, who was looking on in surprise.

"Is she very sick?" was the next inquiry.

"Yes, very sick."

"And does no one care for her but her husband?"

"No one."

"Has she suffered for care,—a woman's care, I mean?"

"Well, not exactly; and yet she might be more comfortable with a woman about her. Women are naturally better nurses than men, and Mr. Thornton is quite worn out, but it does not make much difference now; the lady——"

Daisy did not hear the last part of the sentence, and bidding him good-night, she went back to the hotel as swiftly as she had left it, while the doctor stood watching the flutter of her white dress, wondering how she found it out, and if she would "tell and raise Cain generally."

"Of course not. I know her better than that," he said, to himself. "Poor woman" (referring then to Julia). "Nothing, I fear, can help her now."

Meanwhile, Daisy had reached the hotel, and without going to her own room, bade Sarah tell her the way to No. —.

"What! Oh, Miss McDonald! You surely are not——" Sarah gasped, clutching at the dress, which her mistress took from her grasp, saying:

"Yes, I am going to see that lady. I know her, or of her, and I'm not afraid. Must we let her die alone?"

"But your face,—your beautiful face," Sarah said, and then Daisy did hesitate a moment, and glancing into a hall mirror, wondered how the face she saw there, and which she knew was beautiful, would look scarred and disfigured as she had seen faces in New York.

There was a momentary conflict, and then, with an inward prayer that Heaven would protect her, she passed on down the narrow hall and knocked softly at No. —, while Sarah stood wringing her hands in genuine distress, and feeling as if her young mistress had gone to certain ruin.