knowing why.

For a few days a veritable seizure of religious enthusiasm held sway
over her. She spoke of endowing a hospital, of doing church work among
the "slums" of the city. But no sooner had her friends readjusted their
points of view to suit this new development than she was off upon
another tangent, and was one afternoon seen at the races, with Mrs.
Gretry, in her showiest victoria, wearing a great flaring hat and a
bouquet of crimson flowers.

She never repeated this performance, however, for a new fad took
possession of her the very next day. She memorised the role of Lady
Macbeth, built a stage in the ballroom at the top of the house, and,
locking herself in, rehearsed the part, for three days uninterruptedly,
dressed in elaborate costume, declaiming in chest tones to the empty
room:

"'The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the entrance of Duncan under
my battlements.'"

Then, tiring of Lady Macbeth, she took up Juliet, Portia, and Ophelia;
each with appropriate costumes, studying with tireless avidity, and
frightening Aunt Wess' with her declaration that "she might go on the
stage after all." She even entertained the notion of having Sheldon
Corthell paint her portrait as Lady Macbeth.

As often as the thought of the artist presented itself to her she
fought to put it from her. Yes, yes, he came to see her often, very
often. Perhaps he loved her yet. Well, suppose he did? He had always
loved her. It was not wrong to have him love her, to have him with her.
Without his company, great heavens, her life would be lonely beyond
words and beyond endurance. Besides, was it to be thought, for an
instant, that she, she, Laura Jadwin, in her pitch of pride, with all
her beauty, with her quick, keen mind, was to pine, to droop to fade in
oblivion and neglect? Was she to blame? Let those who neglected her
look to it. Her youth was all with her yet, and all her power to
attract, to compel admiration.

When Corthell came to see her on the Wednesday evening in question,
Laura said to him, after a few moments, conversation in the
drawing-room:

"Oh, you remember the picture you taught me to appreciate--the picture
of the little pool in the art gallery, the one you called 'Despair'? I
have hung it in my own particular room upstairs--my sitting-room--so as
to have it where I can see it always. I love it now. But," she added,
"I am not sure about the light. I think it could be hung to better
advantage." She hesita