On the first Sunday after his arrival at Kleindorf a fine carriage and pair drew up at the shrubbery gate， just as the family were returning from the morning service in the little church where the Pasteur ministered. Madame sighed when she saw it， for she would have loved dearly to possess such an equipage， as indeed， she had done at one period in her career， before an obscure series of circumstances led to her strange union with Monsieur Boiset.
"What beautiful horses，" exclaimed Juliette， her hazel eyes sparkling.
"Oh！ that tenth Commandment， who can keep it？ And why should some people have fine horses and others not even a pony？ /Ma mère/， why were you not able to keep that carriage of which you have spoken to me so often？"
Madame bit her lip， and with a whispered "hold your tongue，" plunged into conversation about Miss Ogilvy. Then Godfrey entered the carriage and was whirled away in style， looking like the prince in a fairy book， as Juliette remarked， while the Pasteur tried to explain to her how much happier she was without the temptation of such earthly vanities.
Miss Ogilvy's house was a beautiful dwelling of its sort， standing in gardens of its own that ran down to the lake， and commanding fine views of all the glorious scenery which surrounds Lucerne. The rooms were large and lofty， with parquet floors， and in some of them were really good pictures that their owner had inherited， also collections of beautiful old French furniture. In short， it was a stately and refined abode， such as is sometimes to be found abroad in the possession of Americans or English people of wealth， who for their health's sake or other reasons， make their homes upon the Continent.
On hearing the carriage arrive， Miss Ogilvy， who was dressed in a simple， but charming grey gown and， as Godfrey noticed at once， wore round her neck the old Gnostic talisman which he had given her， came from a saloon to meet him in the large， square hall.
"I /am/ glad to see you， Godfrey，" she said in her soft， cultivated voice.
"So am I， Miss Ogilvy，" he answered， with heartiness， "I mean to see you. But，" he added， studying her， "you do not look very well."
She smiled rather pathetically， and said in a quick voice：
"No， I took a cold on that journey. You see I am rather an invalid， which is why I live here--while I do live--what they call /poitrinaire/."
Godfrey shook his head， the word was beyond him.
"/Anglicé/ consumptive，" she explained. "There are lots of us in Switzerland， you know， and on the whole， we are a merry set. It is characteristic of our complaint. But never mind about me. There are two or three people here. I daresay you will think them odd， but they are clever in their way， and you ought to have something in common.
Come in."
He followed her into the beautiful cool saloon， with its large， double French windows designed to keep out the bitter winds of winter， but opened now upon the brilliant garden. Never before had he been in so lovely a room， that is of a modern house， and it impressed him with sensations that at the moment he did not try to analyse. All he knew was that they were mingled with some spiritual quality， such as once or twice he had felt in ancient churches， something which suggested both the Past and the Future， and a brooding influence that he could not define. Yet the place was all light and charm， gay with flowers and landscape pictures， in short， lacking any sombre note.
Gathered at its far end where the bow window overlooked the sparkling lake， were three or four people， all elderly. Instantly one of these riveted his attention. She was stout， having her grey hair drawn back from a massive forehead， beneath which shone piercing black eyes. Her rather ungainly figure was clothed in what he thought an ugly green dress， and she wore a necklet of emeralds in an old-fashioned setting， which he also thought ugly but striking. From the moment that he entered the doorway at the far end of that long saloon， he felt those black eyes fixed upon him， and was painfully aware of their owner's presence， so much so， that in a whisper， he asked her name of Miss Ogilvy.
"Oh！" she answered， "that is Madame Riennes， the noted mesmerist and medium."
