That noble mansion had changed greatly. The beauty of its grounds was all run to waste. The snowy walls of the house were tinged with the damp of many winters, which no careful hand had swept away. Rose thickets had grown into jungles. The honeysuckles and clematis vines had leaped from the windows and clambered rudely up the forest trees. Long grass waved along the carriage walks and tufted the gravel. That delicate moss, which seems like the first green breath of decay, was creeping over the broad marble steps, and clothing the stone vases with gloomy richness.

It was very lonely and quiet, that dreary mansion, a mournful contrast to its appearance on the night we saw it last, in pristine freshness, blazing with lights, resonant with music, and all aglow with flowers.

Four persons, who stood in the wilderness which had grown around it, felt this desolation with infinite melancholy.

"Was this my mother's house?" whispered Rose Mason, sadly. "Oh! Paul, where is she now? Not one word from her in all these years."

"Hush, my child," said the minister; "it may have been that trouble has fallen upon her so heavily that, like a poor worried deer, she has crept away to hide her wounds."

"My poor, poor mother," whispered Rose; "but for that man, how happy we might all be now."

"Be patient, my child, be patient."

"How can I be patient, knowing that she lives—at least, feeling the mournful hope—and yet with no certainty? How can I be patient, when my father is away where I cannot see him, wandering from country to country, trying to forget his wrongs—trying, in vain, to forget her?"

The minister looked troubled. This rebellion in his spoiled pet, wounded him like a reproach. He felt how deep were her causes for regret, and left the anguish to exhaust itself.

"There must be some one at the house who will know where she is living. The mansion is evidently inhabited. Let us go forward and inquire. We are legally authorized to enter," said Paul.

"Yes," rejoined the minister, looking at a strange man who was walking down the carriage street with Jube, "here comes our authority; but let us use it with delicacy; soft words are better than warrants; by them our Rose may gain some knowledge of her mother."

The group moved forward; that is, Paul, the minister, and Rose, leaving the stranger and Jube in the grounds. The broad steps had a disused look, as if foot-prints were seldom left upon them; the huge knocker was dim, and grated harshly as the minister lifted it. When it fell, the noise struck them with a shock, its reverberations sounded so startling. It was a long time before any one came to the door; but at last it opened, and an ill-dressed, unshaven man looked out with unwelcoming eyes.

"Do you want any thing?" he said, curtly; "nobody comes to this door. We never see company."

"But we wish to enter the house, and have business which cannot be put off," said Paul.

"Who is it you want to see?"

"Any one who has authority to admit us to an examination of one of the rooms."

"There is no such person here."

The answer was brusque enough, like that which the keeper of a prison gives to troublesome visitors.

"Let us see your master, if you please," said the minister, blandly.

"I have no master!"

"Nor mistress?"

"No, nor mistress. I am her master!"

Rose started, and looked mournfully at Paul.

"What is the lady's name?" she inquired.

"She has fifty names. To-day I believe she is the Empress of Russia."

"But she has a name?"

"Not for strangers. If you have any business here but to ask questions let me hear what it is; no one else will get a say in the matter, I can tell you."

Paul beckoned to the man who lingered in the shrubbery. He came up and held a few words of conversation with the servant, who seemed greatly disturbed, and at once attempted to close the door forcibly. The officer opposed him, and, placing a paper in his hands, bade him make way.

He read the paper with a bewildered look, which changed to something like consternation in the end. He flung the door wide open, and, retreating down the entrance-hall, unlocked a door which led to the south wing.

"You will find the office in yonder," he said, pointing through the door. "I don't know what condition it is in, for no one has entered it, that I know of, for years."

The party passed in, all except Rose, who remained to question the man. But her distress was so great that it took away her voice.

"Well, what is it you want?" he asked, with a tone of kindness, for the agitation in her lovely face impressed even him.

"Tell me her name. The lady of the house, I mean."

"And what good if I do? She's nobody now—that is to any one but us. What on earth is her name to you?"

"I think—I fear—ah, sir, she may be my own mother."

"What is your name?"

"Mason."

"That is not her name, anyhow; but the other name—is it Rose?"

"Yes, yes—Rose!"

"Not Rose Nelson?"

"No, no!"

"It's of no use then: she's nothing to you."

"Oh, if you would but let me speak with her! only look on her face!" pleaded the poor girl, wild with the hopes his questions had raised. "I could not do it. It is against the doctor's orders. Company is worse than any thing."

"Is she ill?"

He now looked on her with contemptuous astonishment.

"You call yourself her daughter, and don't know that?"

"Oh, sir, this is cruel! I have not had a letter or heard from her in nearly seven years! I never knew that this had been her home till within a week; and now you will not let me even look at her!"

The poor girl began to sob and wring her hands. The idea that she was so close by her mother, whom she was forbidden to look upon, overwhelmed her with anguish.

The man seemed touched. "Wait a moment," he said, "I will talk with Mrs. Brown about it. I command the house, but she has charge of the lady."

After this concession, the man went away, leaving Rose seated upon one of the hall chairs, breathless and anxious, for every moment convinced her more and more that she was in the house with her mother.

The man was absent some time. Suspense became intolerable to that young heart. She arose and walked the hall, but the noise of her own footsteps became irksome, as it prevented her listening to the first sound of his approach. She stood still and held her breath. Would he never return? What if he had seemed to relent only to escape her importunity? She started. Yes, yes—there was a sound—a footstep—lighter than his, though—a woman's footstep, accompanied with the rustle of silk and a perfume that penetrated pleasantly to her senses, a perfume that she recognized, and grew faint from the consciousness. Trembling in all her limbs, she stood still, with her eyes penetrating the distance. There was a perpetual twilight in that house. The blinds were all closed, and in some places heavy shutters made the darkness complete. Thus the figure which advanced upon Rose, from what seemed a large drawing-room, moved vaguely through the dusk of the dwelling. It was a lady in full dress, sweeping through the rooms in quick haste, and huddling something to her bosom.