rry this about with me; it is her portrait. Look at it."

Eleanor opens the case reverently, and gazes with a certain awe at the
beautiful face within. She fancies there is a mystery in the far-away
expression of the woman's eyes. But, after all, it is only the mystery
of death.

"That picture was taken after she knew she must die," he says. "They
would not let me marry her then."

His eyes are lowered, Eleanor fancies they are moist.

"Fate is very cruel," she murmurs.

"Yes, when the poetry of existence turns to prose, all the light dies
out. I can never love again. Sentiment to me now is as a shallow
stream."

Quamina appears with the tray of drinks again. Her eyes look wild; she
shambles along; her knees knock together.

"What is the matter with that woman?" asks Major Short, as she staggers
away.

"She is frightfully superstitious, and some nights ago she thought the
devil had come for Carol, and she has never been the same since. She
crouches about like a creature demented. Sometimes I fancy she must be
insane."

Major Short quotes from Pope with a dry smile:

'Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind,
Sees God in clouds, or hears Him in the wind."

"But there is sense in that," Eleanor declares. "God is in all Nature;
every blade of grass manifests Him."

Then she remembers that she is still clasping that small case, and
looks down once more on the impressive features of the beautiful woman.

"Talking of death--and love," she says slowly, harping back to the old
subject, "I often wonder what I should do if anything happened to
Carol. Imagine me here, in a strange country, alone, friendless! What
if he sickened with fever, or was wounded by an enemy, or if he died?"
A shudder of apprehension runs over her.

"I hope you will never call yourself friendless while we--while I am
within your reach. I have suffered myself; I know what sorrow is.
Should you ever be in any trouble, Mrs. Quinton, or need a helping
hand, remember you can rely on me."

Eleanor looks at him with that serious and admiring glance of hers,
expressive of greater gratitude and deeper wonder than any words.

"You are _very_ good," she says at length. "If all men were so kind, I
think women would be better and place surer trust in them."

Two large trees in front of the verandah, with bending boughs, meet and
make an archway of feathery foliage, in which the birds lodge.
Eleanor's eyes turn to the drooping