e was shaken about with every waft. Within, an Argand lamp, and
porcelain shade with a minute painting of Puck and his fairy host, sent
a softened radiance on the old, rich-hued carpet, and antique furniture.
It was but little changed, yet wore an indescribably antique look.

Over at an open window sat Irene Lawrence, dressed in white, with a
single deep-red velvety rose at her throat, which Sylvie had pinned
there. Her hair had grown rapidly, and, though it did not quite curl,
the ends tumbled about loosely, framing in the face with their dusky
purplish tint. It was very clear now, and a little pale; the old
brilliant coloring had not all returned; the passionless grace, the deep
eyes with their steady lights, the mouth suggesting mobility and warmth
and passion, rather than defining it, the droop of the white lids, the
unruffled brow, and the pose of the bowed head and slightly-yielding
throat, made a marvellous picture.

The three were talking earnestly, as people do in the great crises of
life; Sylvie wondrously piquant, with some thin, black, trailing stuff
making shifting billows about her restless feet. She questioned Jack
eagerly, she denounced the attack as cruel and cowardly. What did he
mean to do? What should Fred do for him?

"There is nothing to do, but just wait for the result. The
dragon's-teeth have been sown. The only comfort I have is, that you
never can put a lie on the face of truth, and nail it there. No amount
of arguing or talk can make a thing so when it is _not_ so. Higher than
this little human round, God garners every truth in his keeping, and
will make it tell somewhere!"

Miss Lawrence raised her eyes, and glanced over to him. Had the slow
impassiveness of her soul been touched, that this sudden peculiar grace
of sympathy, or some hidden kindred feeling, rose and asserted itself?
And yet she might have been in some magnetic sleep, for all actual
movement of her features; it was the dawn of an expression that seemed
to transport him to some strange world, where he had known her long
ago,--where he had watched for her coming, listened to her
voice,--rather than any present interest or meaning.

He rose abruptly.

"You are not going!" cried Sylvie, in her pretty wifely imperiousness.

"I"--for a moment he had the sensation of a man drowning. The surging
waves were about him, throbbing, leaping, strangling him. There was a
ringing in his ears, there was a long shuddering sensation, like