aped himself once more in the steamer-chair. But he
buried his chin deep in his hands and sat staring long without
speaking, across the slowly rising and falling rail, at the sea.

His own disclosure had been, as much, if not more, of a shock to
himself as it had been to Elinor. He had not thought very definitely of
Arethusa in weeks, or even months; and now, suddenly with the chance
passing of another young female creature, and his wife's admiration of
her, his daughter's personality had intruded itself as one which must
be reckoned with, and taken somewhat into his calculations. For the
first time he realized that he had not been considering his child at
all, in any plans he had made for the future; and the thought was a bit
disturbing.

"What is her name?" prompted Elinor.

"Arethusa."

"Arethusa!"

"Yes. I know it's a most awful mouthful. But her mother named her," his
voice softened, "her own name was Matilda; and she had always disliked
it so." How long the time had been since he had thought of the mother,
either! Once more he stared across the rail, out at the sunlit sea.

Elinor laid her hand gently on his arm for just a moment; a fleeting
caress of sympathy for his sobered mood.

"Ross, dear," her speaking voice was unusually beautiful, as soft and
clear as a bell, but it had never sounded more like low music than just
now. "Ross, would you tell me something about her? Arethusa's mother, I
mean. But if you'd rather not.... I've no sort of wish to arouse any
memories which might hurt; but I can't help feeling, dear, that I would
like to know something about her. I've never asked you before, because
it seemed impertinent; but I really do not mean it at all in that
sense."

"I know," he answered slowly. "But it was all so long ago, Elinor,
there is nothing left to hurt. It seems sometimes now as if I had
dreamed every bit of it. She was a slip of a thing; just a girl."

It had not been very long, his first cycle of love.

It was just a little more than two years from the summer day he had
first met her, with her cornflower eyes as blue as the ribbons on the
muslin dress she wore, and her dainty tininess, until that summer day
when he had turned away from a low mound in the country cemetery, with
hot rebellion in his heart that the one had been taken and the other
left.

He had not wanted to go to that country party. With all a city boy's
superiority he had yawned at the suggestion; then decided to go