and pathos, but no undue tremor of the
smooth, deliciously sweet voice betrayed aught save the natural
timidity of a tyro, essaying her first critical trial. Tonight she
wore a white shawl draped in statuesque folds over her shoulders and
bust, and the snowy flowers in her raven hair were scarcely purer
than her full forehead, borne up by the airy arched black bows that
had always attracted the admiration of her fastidious guardian; and
as the soft radiance of the clustered lamps fell upon her, she looked
as sweet and lovely a woman as ever man placed upon the sacred hearth
of his home, a holy priestess to keep it bright, serene, and warm.

On that same day, but a few hours earlier, she had perused these
pages, wondering how the unknown gifted poetess beyond the sea had so
accurately etched the suffering in her own young heart, the
loneliness and misery that seemed coiled in the future like serpents
in a lair. Now, holding that bruised palpitating heart under the
steel-clad heel of pride, she was calmly declaiming that portraiture
of her own wretchedness, as any elocutionist might a grand passage
from the "_Antigone_," or "_Prometheus_." Not a throb of pain was
permitted to ripple the rich voice that uttered:

"But two are walking apart for ever,
And wave their hands in a mute farewell."

Farther on, nearing the close, Mr. Palma observed a change in the
countenance, a quick gleam in the eyes, a triumphant ring in the deep
and almost passionate tone that cried exultingly:

"Only my heart to my heart will show it
As I walk desolate day by day."

He leaned forward and touched the volume:

"Thank you. Give me the book. I should render the concluding verses
very much as I heard them recently from my fair client, Mrs.
Carew--so."

In his remarkably clear, full, musical and carefully modulated voice
he read the two remaining verses, then closed the volume and looked
coolly across the table at the girl.

With what a flash her splendid eyes challenged his, and how proudly
her tender lips curled, as with pitiless scorn she answered:

"Not so--oh, not so. Jean Ingelow would never recognize her own
jewelled handiwork. She meant this, and any earnest woman who prized
a faithful lover could not fail to read it aright."

Her eyes sank till they rested on her ring, and slipping it to and
fro upon her slender finger till the diamonds sparkled, she repeated
with indescribable power and path