rently inconsequent grief. In reality she
wept the tears of the world, the same which a new-born child sheds.
Her sorrow was the mysterious sorrow of existence itself. She wept
because of the world, and her life in it, and her going out of it,
because of its sorrow, which is sweetened with joy, and its joy
embittered with sorrow. But she did not know why she wept. Evelyn was
cast on very primitive moulds, and she had been very unrestrained,
first by the indifference of her mother, then by the love of her
father and sister and aunt. It was enough for Evelyn that she wished
to weep that she wept. No other reason seemed in the least necessary
to her. In front of where she sat was a large patch of sunlight
overspreading a low growth of fuzzy weeds, which shone like silver,
and a bent thicket of dry asters which were still blue although
withered.

All at once Evelyn became aware that this patch of sunlight was
darkened, and she looked up in a sweet confusion. Her big, dark eyes
were not in the least reddened by her tears; they only glittered with
them. Her lips, slightly swollen, only made her lovelier.

Directly before her stood the new principal, and he was gazing down
at her with a sort of consternation, pity, and embarrassment.
Wollaston was in reality wishing himself anywhere else. A woman's
tears aroused in him pity and irritation. He wished to pass on, but
it seemed too impossible to do so and leave this lovely young
creature in such distress without a word of inquiry. He therefore
paused, and his slightly cold, blue eyes met Evelyn's brilliant,
tearful ones with interrogation.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. "Shall I call any
one? Are you ill?"

Evelyn felt hurt and disturbed by his look and tone. New tears welled
up in her eyes. She shook her head with a slight pout. Wollaston
passed on. Evelyn raised her head and gazed after him with an
indescribable motion, the motion of a timid, wild thing of the woods,
which pursues, but whose true instinct is to be pursued. Suddenly she
rose, and ran after him, and was by his side.

"I am ashamed you should have seen--" she said, brokenly. "I was
crying for nothing."

Wollaston looked down at her and smiled. She also was smiling through
her tears. "Young ladies should not cry for nothing," he said, with a
whimsical, school-master manner.

"It seems to me that nothing is the most terrible thing in the whole
world to cry for," replied Evelyn, with uncon