all that
could be said for them.

But Leonore? Well, of course she had no alternative but to tread the
path prescribed for her; and the bright spring days were followed by the
longer ones of summer, and again by the crisp, dewy mornings and melting
twilights of early autumn, without any incident or event taking place to
mark one week from another.

Such a life was foreign to all the instincts of our little girl's
nature. She was quick, alert, impetuous. She was keenly alive in every
fibre of her being. She effervesced with vitality. Added to which there
was a strange sense of growth pulsing through every vein.

And of this all outward token had to be repressed beneath the iron hand
of convention. To the outward eye there was only a forlorn little black
figure stealing meekly out of view, to seek, it might be supposed, the
shades of solitude for pensive, retrospective meditation, or discharging
with docility such offices of charity as were presumed to be proper and
becoming to her widowhood,--but for the rest, no one really knew or
cared what Leo did with herself.

She was much alone--they supposed she liked to be alone. On that one day
to which she grew to look back upon as _the_ day--the day on which Sue's
heart stood revealed--it had indeed for a moment appeared as if the
bonds which held her in their grip must break, and give birth to a new
era--but the episode ended disappointingly. It was not an upheaval, it
was a mere crack on the surface--and the crack gradually closed again.

"I told you that father would not always be so amenable," said Sybil one
day, not perhaps altogether ill-pleased to see her sister's face fall,
and her cheek flush beneath a chilling response. "It is no use taking it
to heart, child. You do better with him than any of the rest of us do,
and that ought to content you."

And again it was: "Sue? What should I know about Sue? She goes her own
way, and we go ours,"--the tone conveying, "and you must go yours," as
plainly as though the words had been spoken.

But Leo had no "way" to go. She had no object on which to bend her eyes.
She had no end in view when she rose in the morning, no food for
reflection at night. She drifted. Her poor little face took a wan,
comfortless look,--and to herself she would wonder how, when she first
returned to the home of her childhood, she could have felt so different,
so foolishly hopeful and cheerful? All sorts of possibilities had seemed
to lie before