the world. And with a house
like this on his hands, one could scarce blame him. Twice a week, during
this absence, a caretaker came in, flourished a feather duster, and went
away again. Society reporters always referred to this house as "the
palatial residence."

This morning a woman stood in the alcove-window and looked down into the
glistening street. There was a smile on her lips, in her eyes, in the
temporary little wrinkles on either side of her nose. The Venetian red
of her hair trapped the reflected sunlight from the opposite windows,
and two little points of silver danced in her blue eyes. Ah! but her
eyes were blue; blue as spring-water in the morning, blue as the summer
sky seen through a cleft in the mountains, blue as lapis-lazuli, with
the same fibers of gold. And every feature and contour of the face
harmonized with the marvelous hair and the wonderful eyes; a beautiful
face, warm, dreamy, engaging, mobile. It was not the face of a worldly
woman; neither was it the face of a girl. It was too emotional for the
second, and there was not enough control for the first. It seemed as if
she stood on the threshold of life, with one hand lingering regretfully
in the clasp of youth and the other doubtfully greeting womanhood;
altogether, something of a puzzle.

But the prophecy of laughter did not come to pass; the little wrinkles
faded, the mouth grew sad, and the silver points no longer danced in her
eyes. The pain in her heart was always shadowing; like a jailer it
jealously watched and repressed the natural gaiety which was a part of
her. Those who have been in serious wrecks are never quite the same
afterward; and she had seen her fairest dream beaten and crumpled upon
the reef of disillusion.

Yet again the smile renewed itself. She was a creature of varying moods.
She twisted and untwisted the newspaper. Should she? Ought she? Was it
not dreadfully improper and bizarre? Had she not always regretted these
singular impulses? And yet, what harm to read this letter and return it
to the sender? She was so lonely here; it was like being among a strange
people, so long ago was it that her foot had touched this soil. Was it
possible that she was twenty-five? Was there not some miscount, and was
it not fifteen instead? As old and as wise as the Cumaean Sybil at one
moment, as light and careless as a Hebe the next. Would not this war of
wisdom and folly be decided ere long?

She opened the paper and smoothed out th