m of daily
rounds, of common tasks, that the heart which beat with such ordinary
regularity in the seemingly ordinary breast of a very ordinary girl
did so all unconscious of the intense pathos which underlay this very
ordinary existence.

Vaguely Louisa knew that somewhere, beyond even the land of dreams,
there lay, all unknown, all mysterious, a glorious world of romance: a
universe peopled by girlish imaginings, and the sensitive, creating
thoughts of poets, by the galloping phantasies of super-excited
brains, and the vague longings of ambitious souls: a universe wherein
dwelt alike the memories of those who have loved and the hopes of
those who suffer. But when she thought of it all, she did so as one
who from the arid plain gazes on the cool streams and golden minarets
which the fairy Fata Morgana conjures on the horizon far away. She
looked on it as all unreal and altogether beyond her ken. She shut her
eyes to the beautiful mirage, her heart against its childish
yearnings.

Such things did not exist. They were not for her--Louisa Harris. The
little kitchenmaid at the court who, on Sunday evenings, went off
giggling, her chubby face glowing with pride and the result of recent
ablutions, on the arm of Jim the third gardener, knew more about that
world of romance than well-bred, well-born young ladies ever dreamed
of in their commonplace philosophy.

And Louisa Harris had always shut down the book which spoke of such
impossible things, and counted herself one of the strong ones of the
earth.

Therefore now, with Luke's letter in her hand, in which he tells her
in a very few words that he loves her beyond anything on earth, and
that he only waits the day when he can call her his own, his very own
dearly loved wife, why should Louisa--prosy, healthy-minded,
healthy-bodied Louisa--suddenly imagine that the whole world is
transfigured?--that the hotel room is a kind of ante-chamber to
heaven?--that the red velvet, uncompromising chairs are clouds of a
roseate hue and that the bronze Psyche with the broken thigh is the
elusive fairy who, with Morgana-like wand, hath conjured up this
mirage of glorious visions which mayhap would vanish again before
long?

She went up to the window and rested her forehead against the cool
pane. She might be ever so strong, she could not help her forehead
feeling hot and her eyes being full of tears--tears that did not hurt
as they fell.

Outside the weather was indeed prosy and c