mulous anxiety, and the first
glance told her that her news had not been anticipated. Cecily was
seated with several books open before her; the smile of friendly
welcome slowly lighting her grave countenance, showed that her mind
detached itself with difficulty from an absorbing subject.

"Welcome always," she said, "and most so when least expected."

The room was less bare than when she first occupied it. Pictures and
books were numerous; the sunlight fell upon an open piano; an easel, on
which was a charcoal drawing from a cast, stood in the middle of the
floor. But the plain furniture remained, and no mere luxuries had been
introduced. It was a work-room, not a boudoir.

"You are still content in your hermitage?" said Eleanor, seating
herself and controlling her voice to its wonted tone.

"More and more. I have been reading since six o'clock this morning, and
never felt so quiet in mind."

Her utterance proved it; she spoke in a low, sweet voice, its music
once more untroubled. But in looking at Eleanor, she became aware of
veiled trouble on her countenance.

"Have you come only to see me? Or is there something--?"

Eleanor broke the news to her. And as she spoke, the beautiful face
lost its calm of contemplation, grew pain-shadowed, stricken with pangs
of sorrow. Cecily turned away and wept--wept for the past, which in
these moments had lived again and again perished.

It seemed to Spence that his wife mourned unreasonably. A week or more
had passed, and yet he chanced to find her with tears in her eyes.

"I have still so much of the old Eve in me," replied Eleanor. "I am
heavy-hearted, not for him, but for Cecily's dead love. We all have a
secret desire to believe love imperishable."

"An amiable sentiment; but it is better to accept the truth."

"True only in some cases."

"In many," said Spence, with a smile. "First love is fool's paradise.
But console yourself out of Boccaccio. 'Bocca baciata non perde
ventura; anzi rinnuova, come fa la luna.'"

THE END

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