shawls.

"No; let me sit up." And she took an ordinary chair, looking round upon
the lake and the little flowery terrace with a slow, absorbed look, like
one trying to remember. Suddenly she bowed her head on her hands.

"Aileen!" cried Lady Blanche, in an agony.

But the girl motioned her away. "Don't, mummy. I'm all right."

And restraining any further emotion, she laid her arms on the balustrade
and gazed long and calmly into the purple depths and gleaming snows of
the Rhone valley. Her hat oppressed her and she took it off, revealing
the abundance of her delicately golden hair, which, in its lack of
lustre and spring, seemed to share in the physical distress and loss of
the whole personality.

The face was that of a doomed creature, incapable now of making any
successful struggle for the right to live. What had been sensibility had
become melancholy; the slight, chronic frown was deeper, the pale lips
more pinched. Yet intermittently there was still great sweetness, the
last effort of a "beautiful soul" meant for happiness, and withered
before its time.

As Julie stood beside her, while Lady Blanche had gone to fetch a book
from the salon, the poor child put out her hand and grasped that
of Julie.

"It is quite possible I may get the letter to-night," she said, in a
hurried whisper. "My maid went down to Montreux--there is a clever man
at the post-office who tried to make it out for us. He thinks it'll be
to-night."

"Don't be too disappointed if nothing comes," said Julie, caressing the
hand. Its thinness, its icy and lifeless touch, dismayed her. Ah, how
easily might this physical wreck have been her doing!

* * * * *

The bells of Montreux struck half-past six. A restless and agonized
expectation began to show itself in all the movements of the invalid.
She left her chair and began to pace the little terrace on Julie's arm.
Her dragging step, the mournful black of her dress, the struggle between
youth and death in her sharpened face, made her a tragic presence. Julie
could hardly bear it, while all the time she, too, was secretly and
breathlessly waiting for Warkworth's last words.

Lady Blanche returned, and Julie hurried away.

She passed through the hotel and walked down the Montreux road. The post
had already reached the first houses of the village, and the postman,
who knew her, willingly gave her the letters.

Yes, a packet for Aileen, addressed in an unknown