It was an awful play to read on such a night and in such a
place, with the wind howling round the corners and the snow gathering
deeply upon the window-panes. I was in a considerable state of fright
when I began it: I was in an agony of terror before I had got half-way
through. Now and then I heard footsteps on the stairs: again I could
distinguish two voices, one a woman's, whispering outside the door; a
little later, the other door was very slightly opened and then pushed
back again stealthily by a man's hand. Still I read on. At last, just as
I reached the point where Triboulet is about to throw the corpse into
the river, my candle, a mere end, began to sputter in its socket, and
after a few ineffectual flickers suddenly went out, leaving me in the
dark till morning. I lay down once more, trembling but wearied out. A few minutes later the
voices came again. The further door was opened a second time, and I saw
dimly a pair of eyes (_not_, I felt sure, Lucretia's) peering in the
gloom, and reflecting the light from the snow on the window. A man's
voice said huskily in an undertone, "It's all right now;" and then there
was a silence. I knew they were coming to murder me. I clutched the
poker firmly, stood on guard over the dollars, and waited the assault. The moment that intervened seemed like a lifetime. A minute. Five minutes. A quarter of an hour. They are evidently trying
to take me off my guard. Perhaps they saw the poker; in any case, they
must have felt the bedstead against the door. That would show them that
I expected them. I held my watch to my ear and counted the seconds, then
the minutes, then the hours. When the candle went out it was three
o'clock. I counted up till about half-past five. After that I must have fallen asleep from very weariness. My head glided
back upon the reticule, and I dozed uneasily until morning. Every now
and then I started in my sleep, but the murderers hung back. When I
awoke it was eight o'clock, and the dollars were still safe under my
head. I rose wearily, washed myself, and arranged the tumbled clothes in
which I had slept, for my portmanteau had not yet arrived from the
Depôt. Next, I put back the bed and mattress, and then I took the
dollars and went downstairs to the bar, hardly knowing whether to laugh
at my last night's terror, or to congratulate myself on my lucky escape
from a den of robbers. At the foot of the stairs, whom should I come
across but Lucretia herself! In a moment the doubt was gone. She was enchanting. Quite a different
style of dress, but equally lovely and suitable. A long figured gown of
some fine woollen material, giving very nearly the effect of a plain
neat print, and made quite simply to fit her perfect little figure. A
plain linen collar, and a quiet silver brooch. Hair tied in a single
broad knot above the head, instead of yesterday's chignon and
cheese-plate. Altogether, a model winter morning costume for a cold
climate. And as she advanced frankly, holding out her hand with a smile,
I could have cut my own throat with a pocket-knife as a merited
punishment for daring to distrust her. Such is human nature at the ripe
age of twenty! "We were so afraid you didn't sleep, Tom and I," she said with a little
tone of anxiety; "we saw a light in your room till so very late, and Tom
opened the door a wee bit once or twice to see if you were sleeping; but
he said you seemed to have pulled the mattress on the floor. I _do_ hope
you weren't ill."

What on earth could I answer? Dare I tell this angel how I had suspected
her? Impossible! "Well," I stammered out, colouring up to my eyes, "I
_was_ rather over-tired, and couldn't get to rest, so I put the candle
on a chair, took a book, and lay on the floor so as to have a light to
read by. But I slept very well after the candle went out, thank you." "There were none but French books in the room, though," she said
quickly: "perhaps you read French?" "I read _Le Roi s'amuse_, or part of it," said I. "Oh, what a dreadful play to read on Christmas Eve!" cried Lucretia,
with a little deprecating gesture. "But you must come and have your
breakfast." I followed her into the dining-room, a pretty little bright-looking
room behind the bar. Frightened as I was during the night, I could not
fail to notice how tastefully the bedroom was furnished; but this little
_salle-à-manger_ was far prettier. The paper, the carpet, the furniture,
were all models of what cheap and simple cottage decorations ought to
be. They breathed of Lucretia. The Montreal nuns had evidently taught
her what "art at home" meant. The table was laid, and the white
table-cloth, with its bright silver and sprays of evergreen in the vase,
looked delightfully appetising. I began to think I might manage a
breakfast after all. "How pretty all your things are!" I said to Lucretia. "Do you think so?" she answered. "I chose them, and I laid the table." I looked surprised; but in a moment more I was fairly overwhelmed when
Lucretia left the room for a minute, and then returned carrying a tray
covered with dishes. These she rapidly and dexterously placed upon the
table, and then asked me to take my seat. "But," said I, hesitating, "am I to understand.... You don't mean to
say.... Are you ... going ... to _wait upon me_?" Lucretia's face was one smile of innocent amusement from her white
little forehead to her chiselled little chin. "Why, yes," she answered,
laughing, "of course I am. I always wait upon our guests when I'm at
home. And I cooked these salmon cutlets, which I'm sure you'll find nice
if you only try them while they're hot." With which recommendation she
uncovered all the dishes, and displayed a breakfast that might have
tempted St. Anthony. Not being St. Anthony, I can do Lucretia's
breakfast the justice to say that I ate it with unfeigned heartiness. So my princess was, after all, the domestic manager and assistant cook
of a small country inn! Not a countess, not even a murderess (which is
at least romantic), but only a prosaic housekeeper! Yet she _was_ a
princess for all that. Did she not read Victor Hugo, and play "Lucrezia
Borgia," and spread her own refinement over the village tavern? In no
other country could you find such a strange mixture of culture and
simplicity; but it was new, it was interesting, and it was piquant. Lucretia in her morning dress officiously insisting upon offering me the
buckwheat pancakes with her own white hands was Lucretia still, and I
fell deeper in love than ever. After breakfast came a serious difficulty. I must go to the Pritchards,
but before I went, I must pay. Yet, how was I to ask for my bill? I
_couldn't_ demand it of Lucretia. So I sat a while ruminating, and at
last I said, "I wonder how people do when they want to leave this
house." "Why," said Lucretia, promptly, "they order the sleigh." "Yes," I answered sheepishly, "no doubt. But how do they manage about
paying?" Lucretia smiled.