ing her hand, that he realized
that she was far less aware of him than he of her. Not that she was not
glad; she sighed deeply with content, smiling at him, holding his hand
closely; but there was a shadow of preoccupation on her.

"Tell me, darling, is everything all right?" he asked. "You have had
good news from your guardian?"

She said nothing for a moment, looking out of the window, and then back
at him. Then she said: "She is beautiful to me. But I have made her
sad."

"Made her sad? Why have you made her sad?" Gregory suppressed--only just
suppressed--an indignant note.

"I did not think of it myself," said Karen. "I didn't think of her side
at all, I'm afraid, because I did not realise how much I was to her. But
you remember what I told you I was, the little home thing; I am that
even more deeply than I had thought; and she feels--dear, dear one--that
that is gone from her, that it can never be the same again." She turned
her eyes from him and the tears gathered thickly in them.

"But, dearest," said Gregory, "she can't want to make you sad, can she?
She must really be glad to have you happy. She herself wanted you to get
married, and had found Franz Lippheim for you, you know." Instinct
warned him to go carefully.

Karen shook her head with a little impatience. "One may be glad to have
someone happy, yet sad for oneself. She is sad. Very, very sad."

"May I see her letter?" Gregory asked after a moment, and Karen,
hesitating, then drew it from the pocket of her cloak, saying, as she
handed it to him, and as if to atone for the impatience, "It doesn't
make me love you any less--you understand that, dear Gregory--because
she is sad. It only makes me feel, in my own happiness, how much I love
her."

Gregory read. The address was "Belle Vue."

"My Darling Child,--A week has passed since I had your letter and
now the second has come and I must write to you. My Karen knows
that when in pain it is my instinct to shut myself away, to be
quite still, quite silent, and so to let the waves go over me. That
is why, she will understand, I have not written yet. I have waited
for the strength and courage to come back to me so that I might
look my sorrow in the face. For though it is joy for you, and I
rejoice in it, it is sorrow, could it be otherwise, for me. So the
years go on and so our cherished flowers drop from us; so we feel
our roots of life chilling and gro