e, pink, and orange crysanthemums
flecked the lawn with color; and a flower-stand, covered with china
jars that held geraniums, seemed almost a pyramid of flame, from the
profusion of scarlet blooms.

The sun had gone down behind a waving line of low hills, where,--

"Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver,
Clouds in the distance dwell,
Clouds that are cool, for all their color,
Pure as a rose-lipped shell.
Fleets of wool in the upper heavens
Gossamer wings unfurl;
Sailing so high they seem but sleeping
Over yon bar of pearl."

Still as crystal was the sapphire sea that mirrored that quiet,
sapphire sky, and not a murmur, not a ripple, stirred the evening air
or the yellow sands that stretched for miles along the winding coast.

When Dr. Grey had partially crossed the lawn, he glanced towards the
marble temple that gleamed against the dark background of deodars, and
saw a woman sitting on the steps of the tomb. Softly he approached and
entered the mausoleum by an arch on the opposite side, but,
notwithstanding his cautious tread, he startled a white pigeon that
had perched on the altar, where fresh violets, heliotrope, and snowy
sprigs of nutmeg-geranium were leaning over the scalloped edge of the
Venetian glasses, and distilling perfume in their delicate chalices.

Mrs. Carlyle had brought her floral tribute to the sepulchral urn,
and, having carefully arranged her daily Arkja, had seated herself on
the steps to rest.

From the two sentinel poplars that guarded the front, golden leaves
were sifting down on the marble floor, and three or four had drifted
upon the lap of the quiet figure, while one, bright and rich as autumn
gilding could make it, rested like a crown on the silver waves that
covered her head.

Down the shining steps trailed the folds of the white merino robe, and
around her shoulders was wrapped the blue crape shawl, while a cluster
of violets seemed to have slipped from her fingers, and strewed
themselves at random on her dress.

Softly Dr. Grey drew near, and his voice was tremulously tender, as he
said,--

"Mrs. Carlyle, no barrier divides us now."

She did not speak, or turn her queenly head, and he laid his hand
caressingly on the glistening gray hair.

"My darling, my first and only love--my brave, beautiful 'Agla,' may I
not tell you, at last, what conscience once forbade my uttering?"

As motionless and silent as the sculptured poppies above her, she took