oubt on
the subject. I am waking."

"Meanwhile enjoying yourself."

"Why not?" she answered, smiling: "it is what aunt wishes me to do."

At first I had frequent letters from my friend, but the intervals
between them became longer, as is usual when a new life replaces the
old. In those which I received there was no allusion to the career, and
I felt that inquiries on the subject would be indiscreet. If she were
succeeding, I should hear of it soon enough; and if not, why should I
give her pain? After a separation of about eighteen months, and a
silence of six, one morning, on being sent for to the parlor, what was
my surprise to find myself face to face with Eleanor Vachy, and the
girl, prettier than ever, pressing warm kisses on my cheeks!

We had been talking on every conceivable topic for perhaps an hour, as
only friends can talk, when I chanced to remark, "You intended to make a
much longer stay when you left: I hope nothing disagreeable has
happened to bring you home."

"Nothing _dis_agreeable," she replied, looking slightly
embarrassed. "I would have written about it, but thought I would rather
tell you. I hope it won't alter your opinion of me when you hear it: I
hope you won't think less of me;" and the color mounted swiftly in her
cheeks as she gave me one deprecating glance out of her purple eyes, and
then as quickly hid them under their long lashes.

"I will try to be impartial," I answered gravely, seeing that she was
not in a humor to be laughed at. "I suppose it is in reference to your
career?"

"Yes it is," she replied, looking attentively at the point of her
boot; "and I fear aunt is disappointed, although she says nothing;
and it is very possible that you will be disappointed also."

"If you have chosen anything reasonable," I remarked encouragingly, "I
am sure your aunt will be satisfied: she is so unprejudiced, and you
know she always declared that she would not influence you."

"She trusted me too much," sighing. "What I have preferred,
you--maybe she--that is, many people--would think no career at all."

"Ah, indeed! Poetry?" (I knew that Aunt Will had no great opinion of
most of the versifiers.)

She interlocked her fingers and gave them a slight twist, looked still
more intently at the toe of her boot, and dropped ruefully one little
word, "No."

"It is not the stage, surely?" looking at her perfect beauty with a
sudden start.

"No, no! it is not that. You cannot guess. I may as w