. 'Dear Alma,' it began, and it ended with 'Yours
affectionately'--just as usual.

'Could you possibly come here some day this week? I haven't written
before, and haven't tried to see you, because I felt sure you would
rather be left alone. At the same time I feel sure that what has
happened, though for a time it will sadden us both, cannot affect our
friendship. I want to see you, as we are going away very soon, first of
all to _Honolulu_. Appoint your own time; I will be here.'

By return of post came the black-edged answer, which began with
'Dearest Sibyl,' and closed with 'Ever affectionately'.

'I cannot tell you how relieved I am to get your kind letter. These
dreadful days have made me ill, and one thing that increased my misery
was the fear that I should never hear from you again. I should not have
dared to write. How noble you are!--but then I always knew that. I
cannot come tomorrow--you know why--but the next day I will be with you
at three o'clock, if you don't tell me that the hour is inconvenient.'

They met at the appointed time. Mrs. Carnaby's fine sense of the
becoming declared itself in dark array; her voice was tenderly subdued;
the pressure of her hand, the softly lingering touch of her lips,
conveyed a sympathy which perfect taste would not allow to become
demonstrative. Alma could at first say nothing. The faint rose upon her
cheek had vanished; her eyes were heavy, and lacked their vital gleam;
her mouth, no longer mobile and provocative, trembled on the verge of
sobs, pathetic, childlike. She hung her head, moved with a languid,
diffident step, looked smaller and slighter, a fashionable garb of woe
aiding the unhappy transformation.

'I oughtn't to have given you this trouble,' said Sibyl. 'But perhaps
you would rather see me here----'

'Yes--oh yes--it was much better----'

'Sit down, dear. We won't talk of wretched things, will we? If I could
have been of any use to you----'

'I was so afraid you would never----'

'Oh, you know me better than that,' broke in Mrs. Carnaby, almost with
cheerfulness, her countenance already throwing off the decorous shadow,
like a cloak that had served its turn. 'I hope I am neither foolish nor
worldly-minded.'

'Indeed, indeed not! You are goodness itself.'

'How is Mrs. Frothingham?'

The question was asked with infinite delicacy, head and body bent
forward, eyes floatingly averted.

'Really ill, I'm afraid. She has fainted several times--yesterd