lite composure, "It is a very pretty remembrance," led
the way into the dining-room. Paula with a slow drooping of her head
quickly followed, while Miss Belinda brought up the rear, with the look
of a successful diplomat.

A meal in the Sylvester mansion was always a formal affair, but this was
more than formal. A vague oppression seemed to fill the air; an
oppression which Miss Belinda's stirring conversation found it
impossible to dissipate. In compliance to Mr. Sylvester's request, she
sat at the head of the table, and was the only one who seemed able to
eat anything. For one thing she had never seen Ona in that post of
honor, but Paula and Mr. Sylvester could not forget the graceful form
that once occupied that seat. The first meal above a grave, no matter
how long it has been dug, must ever seem weighted with more or less
unreality.

Besides, with Paula there was a vague unsettled feeling, as if some
delicate inner balance had been too rudely shaken. She longed to fly
away and think, and she was obliged to sit still and talk.

The end of the meal was a relief to all parties. Miss Belinda went up
stairs, thoughtfully shaking her firm head; Mr. Sylvester sat down again
to his paper, and Paula advanced towards the dainty gift that awaited
her inspection on the library table. But half way to it she paused. A
strange shyness had seized her. With Mr. Sylvester sitting there, she
dared not approach this delicate testimonial of another's affection. She
did not know as she wished to. Her eyes stole in hesitation to the
floor. Suddenly Mr. Sylvester spoke:

"Why do you not look at your pretty present, Paula?"

She started, gave him a quick glance, and advanced hurriedly towards the
table; but scarcely had she reached it when she paused, turned and
hastened over to his side. He was still reading, or appearing to read,
but she saw his hand tremble where it grasped the sheet, though his face
with its clear cut profile, shone calm and cold against the dark
background of the wall beyond.

"I do not care to look at it now," said she, with a hurried interlacing
of her restless fingers.

He turned towards her and a quick thrill passed over his countenance.
"Sit down, Paula," said he, "I want to talk to you."

She obeyed as might an automaton. Was it the tone of his voice that
chilled her, or the studied aspect of his fixed and solemn countenance?
He did not speak at once, but when he did, there was no faltering in his
voic