ntion of that name which those walls must no
longer hear. It fell from Elsie's lips thoughtlessly, and at once
dispelled her faint attempt at cheerfulness, throwing her into the gloom
which she had succeeded in shutting out for a little time.

"Did you write that letter, Grant?" she asked, quickly.

"Yes; I sent it down to the village, to go by the morning's mail."

"Thank you, Grant, thank you!"

She attempted to console herself with thinking she had done something in
Elizabeth's behalf, but when her conscience compared it with all that
she ought to have done, her coward heart shrank back at the contrast.

"I am tired of cards," she said, sweeping the bits of pasteboard off the
bed with one of her abrupt movements, which would have been rude in
another, but seemed graceful and childish in her. "Cards are stupid
things at the best!"

Mellen patiently collected the scattered pack and laid it away, trying
to think of some other means of relieving her _ennui_.

"Shall I read to you?" he asked.

"I don't believe I could listen," she said, tossing her head wearily
about. "I don't know--just try."

There was a pile of new novels and magazines on the table in the centre
of the room, for Elsie always kept herself liberally supplied with these
sources of distraction, though it must be confessed that she generally
carried the recreation to an extreme, reading her romance to the
exclusion of more solid studies, just as she preferred nibbling
bon-bons, to eating substantial food.

"There certainly is opportunity for a choice," Mellen said, glancing at
the pile. "What book will you choose?"

"Oh, bring a magazine; read me some short story."

Mellen seated himself, opened the periodical and commenced reading the
first tale he lighted upon. It was a story by a popular author,
beginning in a light, pleasant way, and promising the amusement his
listener needed. But as the little romance went on it deepened into a
pathetic tragedy. It was an account of a noble-born Sicilian woman who,
during the Revolution, endured, silently, every species of suffering, at
last death itself, rather than betray her husband to his enemies, yet
the husband had bitterly wronged her and half-broken her heart during
their married life.

Elsie did not listen at first, but as the story went on her thoughts
became so painful that she tried to fasten her attention upon the
reading. When she began to take notice Mellen was just in the midst of
the a