ddy, rippled wood, like the auburn hair of a
woman. The eyes of the portrait--smoke-blue eyes--looked straight into
hers. And as she looked back into them, it was like seeing herself in a
mirror, a mysterious mirror which refused to reflect her mourning
clothes, and gave her instead a white dress.

This was so strange a thing, that the girl could not believe she really
saw it. She thought that she must be asleep in the train, on the way to
Santa Barbara, and that in her eager impatience she had dreamed ahead.
This would explain the deserted house. She was only dreaming that she
had walked up the garden path, and had found her friend gone--gone to
avoid her. How _like_ a dream!--the strain to succeed, and then failure
and vague disappointment wherever one turned! How like a dream that her
portrait should be found hanging in a marvelous frame, in the house of
a man who had never seen her, never even had her description! She would
wake up presently, of course, and find herself shaking about in the
train. How glad, how glad she must be that this was a dream, because
when she did indeed come to the Mirador, there would be curtains and
furniture and pictures and books, such as John Sanbourne had written
about, and John Sanbourne himself would be there expecting her! Still,
it was astonishing that the dream went on and on being so vivid. She
could not wake up!

As she stared at the eyes of the portrait, hypnotized by them, a
stronger breeze slammed the door shut. Now she would surely wake!
Noises always waked one. They had no place in dreams. But no. The scene
remained the same, except that the handle of the door was being slowly
turned. Some one was opening it from the outside. The dream was to go
on, to another phase. The girl clasped her hands, and pressed them
against her breast. So she stood when the door opened wide, and a man,
stopped by the sight of her, stepped back in crossing the threshold.

"Barbara!"

The name sprang to Denin's lips, but he did not utter it.

He had meant to go away in time. He had tried to spare her this; yet he
had in his secret heart thought that, if she did come, it would be
heaven to see her. But now it was not so. There was one brief flash of
joy in her beauty; then horror of himself overpowered it. Her very
loveliness seemed to make his guilt more hateful--a lifetime of guilt!
He saw himself as the murderer of this girl's youth and happiness. It
seemed to him that no man had ever sinne