d have believed,
perforce, that no man and no thing would have power to hinder her
in carrying out her resolve. Omitting differences of age and sex,
she seemed the living portrait of her father. The same cold
self-confidence as in him; the same clear penetrating glance as
of steel; the same enigmatical smile on impressionable and also
cold lips. As if involuntarily, and lowering her voice, she said
in addition:

"It is our duty to put a radical stop to the family idyl out of
regard also to Cara. She is innocent yet--she knows nothing--she
loves all, and not only loves but worships. Life has not touched
her, even with the tip of one of its angel feathers. Just imagine
what would happen if, into that little volcano of lofty feeling,
a spark of this knowledge were to fall. And this may happen any
moment. If we do not change the condition of affairs it will
happen."

She was silent, and Darvid was silent also. It might seem that he
recognized only Irene's last argument as worthy of attention. The
two voices had grown silent, one after the other; then, somewhere
in the corner of the room, was heard a rustle, not so low as
before, far stronger, a low knocking rather than a rustle, and
almost at the same time a servant in the open door of the
antechamber called:

"The horses are ready."

Irene, who had turned her face toward the rustle, or knocking,
thought some of the countless papers in the room had dropped from
the furniture, or that some book had fallen. Darvid, who also had
heard the knocking, or rustle, forgot it while looking at his
watch.

"I shall be late," said he. "You have told me things over which I
must meditate. I cannot deny that they possess considerable
importance. Hence, I delay, and shall beg you soon to continue
this conversation. Good-night, and perhaps till to-morrow."

"Let it be only till to-morrow. I beg you, father. Tomorrow."

Miss Mary was sitting in her pupil's bedroom, a beautiful nest
which wealth had formed as a symbol of the springtime of life.
From the top of the walls to the bottom, cretonne, interchanged
with muslin, formed succeeding folds on which the freshest
flowers of spring seemed to have been scattered. The walls, the
windows, the furniture were covered with a shower of
forget-me-nots and rosebuds, strewn on grounds of yellow as pale
as if sunlight had penetrated them slightly. Groups of green
plants at the windows looked like little groves made ready for
the songs of ni