If she had ever had
them, no trace was left of their whilom presence. At first Maggie had
flatly refused to come to Russia. When Paul pressed her to do so, she
accepted with a sort of wonder. There was something which she did not
understand.
The same instinct made her refuse now to accompany Paul and Etta over
their new home. Again Etta pressed her, showing her lack of some feeling
which Maggie indefinitely knew she ought to have had. This time Paul
made no sign. He added no word to Etta's persuasions, but stood gravely
looking at his wife.
When the door had closed behind them, Maggie stood for some minutes by
the window looking out over the snow-clad plain, the rugged, broken
rocks beneath her.
Then she turned to the writing-table. She resolutely took pen and paper,
but the least thing seemed to distract her attention--the coronet on the
note-paper cost her five minutes of far-off reflection. She took up the
pen again, and wrote "Dear Mother."
The room grew darker. Maggie looked up. The snow had begun again. It was
driving past the window with a silent, purposeful monotony. The girl
drew the writing-case toward her. She examined the pen critically and
dipped it into the ink. But she added nothing to the two words already
written.
The castle of Osterno is almost unique in the particular that one roof
covers the ancient and the modern buildings.
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