After this the days flew by very much alike.

Miss Arthur's maid arrived, and proved indeed a treasure, nor was she as obnoxious to Mr. John Arthur as he had evidently intended to find her. Perhaps CÉline Leroque knew by instinct that the master of Oakley cherished an aversion to French maids in particular; or perhaps she was an exceptional French maid, and craved neither the smiles nor slyly administered caresses, that fell to the lot of pretty femmes de chambre, at least in novels. At any rate, certain it is that Miss Arthur's maid manifested no desire to be seen by the inmates of the household, and she had been domiciled for some weeks without having vouchsafed to either John Arthur or Lucian Davlin more than a fleeting glimpse of her maidship.

Things were becoming very monotonous to some of the occupants of the Oakley manor; very, very dull and flavorless.

Cora was growing restless. Not that the astute lady permitted signs of discontent to become manifest to the uninitiated, but Lucian Davlin saw, with a mingled feeling of satisfaction and dismay, that the rÔle of devoted wife had ceased to interest his blonde comrade in iniquity.

The fact gave him a malicious pleasure because, as fate had dared to play against him, he would have felt especially aggrieved if a few thorns had not been introduced into the eider down that seemingly enveloped his fair accomplice.

But he felt some dismay, for he knew by the swift flash of azure eyes under golden lashes, by the sway of her shoulders as she paced the terrace, by the nervous tapping of her slippered foot at certain times in the intervals of table chat—that Cora was thinking. And when Cora thought, something was about to happen.

It was in obedience to one of those swift side glances, that he followed her from the morning room, one forenoon about three weeks after the news of Madeline's death had come to them. The day was bright but chill, and the woman had wrapped herself in a shawl of vivid crimson, but stood with bared head in the sunlight waiting the approach of her counterfeit brother.

"Cover your head, you very thoughtless woman," was his brotherly salutation as he approached, plunging about in his pockets in search of a cigar the while.

"Bother!" she ejaculated, tossing her golden locks; "my hair needs a sunbath. I only wish I dare indulge myself further! If you had any heart you wouldn't torture me so constantly with the odor of those magnificent Havanas, when you know how my very soul longs for a weed!"

"Poor little woman," laughing maliciously; "fancy Mrs. John Arthur of Oakley smoking a Perique! Isn't it prime, Co.?" puffing out a cloud of perfumed smoke.

"Prime! bah! I'd like to strangle you, or—"

"Or?—" inquiringly.

"Somebody," laughing nervously.

"Just so; Miss Arthur would be a good subject and that would confer a favor on me, too, by Jove!"

"I don't want to confer a favor on you. You had much better try and do me one, I think."

"With all my heart, taking my ability for granted, of course; only tell me how."

Cora shrugged her crimson-clad shoulders, and they paced forward in silence for a time. Then as if his stillness had been speech of a distasteful kind, she ejaculated, crossly, and without turning her head: "Stuff! you talk too much!"

Lucian smiled maliciously, removed his cigar from between his lips, described a smoke wreath in mid-air, replaced his weed, and said: "Do I? then mum's the word;" and he relapsed into silence.

He seemed bent on annoying her, for there was a laughing glimmer in his eye, and he obstinately refused to attempt to draw her out, and so make easier whatever she might have to say, for he knew that she had signaled him out to-day for a purpose.

Mutely he walked by her side, and contentedly puffed at his cigar until, at length, she turned upon him, and struck petulantly at the hand that had just removed it from his lips. The weed fell from his fingers to the ground, and Cora set her slippered heel upon it, as if it were an enemy, and laughed triumphantly.

"Now we are on a level," she cried. "Do you suppose I intend to give you that advantage over me?"

"It seems not," with a shrug expressive of resignation and a smile hidden by his mustache.

He was not the man to be angered, or even ruffled, by these little feminine onslaughts. In fact, they rather pleased and amused him, and he had become well accustomed to Cora's "little ways," as he called them. Deprived of his cigar, he thrust his hands into his pockets and whistled softly.

"Lucian, if you don't stop looking so comfortable, and content, and altogether don't-care-ish, I shall do something very desperate," she exclaimed, pettishly.

"No?" raising his eyebrows in mock incredulity; "you don't tell me. I thought you were in a little heaven of your own, Mrs. Arthur."

"Oh! you did? Very clever of you. Well, Mr. Davlin, has it occurred to you that heaven might not be a congenial climate for me?"

"Not while your wings are so fresh, surely? You have scarcely entered your paradise, fair peri."

"Haven't I?" ironically. "Well, I am tired of manna, anyhow." Cora was not always strictly elegant in her choice of expressions. "Now, Lucian, stop parleying, and tell me, when is this going to end?"

"When?"

He stopped and looked down at her intently. Twice they had traversed the terrace, and now they paused at the termination furthest from the house. Just before them a diminutive flight of stone steps led down to a narrow graveled walk, that skirted a velvety bit of lawn, and was in its turn hedged by some close and high-growing shrubs from the "Bellair woods," as they were called. Beyond the steps was a gap in the hedge, and this, cut and trimmed until it formed a compact and beautiful arch, was spanned by a stile, built for the convenience of those who desired to reach the village by the shortest route, the Bellair woods.

"Don't repeat like a parrot, Lucian." Cora raised her voice angrily. "I say, when is this to end? and how?"

They were just opposite the gap in the hedge and Lucian, looking down upon Cora, stood facing the opening. As the words crossed her lips, his eyes fell upon a figure just behind her, and he checked the conversation by an involuntary motion of the hand.

The figure came toward them. It was Miss Arthur's French maid, and she carried in her hand a small parcel. Evidently she was returning from some errand to the village. Miss Arthur's maid had black hair, dressed very low on the forehead; eyes of some sort, it is to be presumed, but they were effectually concealed by blue glasses; a rather pasty complexion; a form that might have been good, but if so, its beauties were hidden by the loose and, as Cora expressed it, "floppy," style of jacket which she habitually wore. She passed them with a low "Bon jour, madame," and hurried up the terrace. At least she was walking swiftly, but not very smoothly, up the terrace when Lucian cast after her a last disapproving glance.

"Your lady's maid is not a swan nor a beauty," he said, as they by mutual consent went down the steps.

Cora made no reply to this, seeming lost in thought. They walked on for a moment in silence.

But CÉline Leroque did not walk on. She dropped her package and, stooping to recover it, cast a swift glance after the pair. They were sauntering slowly down the hedgerow walk, their backs toward her.

Probably the falling parcel had reminded the French maid of something forgotten, for she turned swiftly, silently, and without any of her previous awkwardness retraced her steps and disappeared beyond the stile.

"What's the row, Co.?" asked Lucian, kicking a pebble with his boot toe. "You are getting restive early in the game. Can't you keep to the track for another two months?"

"No."

"What then?"

"This. We must get that fool out of the way."

"Meaning who?"

"She, of course—Ellen Arthur. The woman will make a raving maniac of me in two months more."

"By Jove! and of me, too, if I don't get out of this."

"We must get rid of her."

"How?"

"I don't know—somehow, anyhow."

"And then?"

"And then—" she gave him a side glance, and laughed unpleasantly.

"And then? You have a plan, my blonde. Out with it; I am a listener."

And he did listen.

Slowly down the hedgerow path they paced, and at the end, halted and stood for a time in earnest consultation. There was some difference of opinion, but the difference became adjusted. And they turned toward the house, evidently satisfied with the result of the morning's consultation.

Not long after, Miss Arthur's maid returned also.

"I see by the papers that Dr. LeGuise has come back from Europe, Cora," announced Mr. Davlin from his seat at the lunch table that day.

"Dr. LeGuise! how delightful! Now one will not be afraid to be sick—our old family physician, you know," to Miss Arthur; "and so skillful. He has been in Europe a year. The dear man, how I long to see him!"

"Well!" laughed Lucian, "I will carry him any amount of affection, providing it is not too bulky. I find that I must run up to the city to-morrow, and of course will look him up."

"Oh!" eagerly, "and find out if he saw the D'Arcys in Paris; and those delightful Trevanions!" Then, regretfully, "can't you stay another week, dear?"

"Out of the question, Co., much as I regret it," glancing expressively at Miss Arthur. "But I shan't forget you all."

"Pray do not," simpered the spinster. "And when do you return?"

"Not for two or three weeks, I fear. But rest assured I shall lose no time, when once I am at liberty."

During his lazy, good-humored moments, Mr. Davlin had made most ridiculous love to Miss Arthur, and that lady had not been behind in doing her part. Now, strange to say, the face which she bent over her napkin wore upon it a look, not of sorrow, but of relief. And why?