ealize just what it is that troubles me most. All that I know is,
that I am very tired and so sad, it seems as if the sun would never
shine again."

"There is then something you have not written me?" inquired the
inexorable Miss Belinda.

"The experiences of this last week could never be written,--or told,"
returned Paula with a droop of her head. "Upon some things our better
wisdom places a stone which only the angels can roll away. The future
lies all open before us; do not let us disturb the past."

And Miss Belinda was forced to be content lest she should seem to be
over anxious.

Not so the various neighbors and friends to whom the lengthened sojourn
of one of their number in an atmosphere of such wealth and splendor,
possessed something of the charm of a forbidden romance. For months
Paula was obliged to endure questions, that it required all her
self-control to answer with calmness and propriety. But at length the
most insatiable gossip amongst them was satisfied; Paula's figure was no
longer a novelty in their streets; curiosity languished and the young
girl was allowed to rest.

And now could those who loved her, discern that with the lapse of time
and the daily breathings of her native air, the sad white look had faded
from her face, leaving it a marvel of freshness and positive, if
somewhat spiritualized, beauty. The print of deeper thoughts and holier
yearnings was there, but no sign of blighted hopes or uncomprehended
passions. A passing wind had blown the froth from off the cup, but had
not disturbed the sparkle of the wine. She had looked in the face of
grief, but had not as yet been clasped in her relentless arms. Only two
things could vitally disturb her; a letter from Cicely, or a sudden
meeting in the village streets with that elderly lady who haunted the
Japha mansion. The former because it recalled a life around which her
fancies still played with dangerous persistency, and the latter because
it aroused vain and inexplicable conjectures as to that person's strange
and lingering look in her direction. Otherwise she was happy; finding in
this simple village-life a meaning and a purpose which her short but
passionate outlook on a broader field, had taught her, perhaps, both to
detect and comprehend. She no longer walked solitary with nature. The
woods, the mountains with all their varying panoply of exuberant
verdure, had acquired a human significance. At her side went the
memories of beloved fac