ng of a world she was no more to
share in. The simple-hearted peasants who accepted them as lodgers asked
no reason for their selection of the place, nor were they likely, in
their strange dialect, to be able to discuss the point with others, save
their neighbors. The chief room, which had three windows opening on a
little terrace, looked out upon a glorious panorama of the Swiss Alps,
with the massive mountains that lead to the Splugen; and it was at one
of these Mrs. Morris--or rather, to give her that name by which for the
last few pages of our story she may be called, Mrs. Hawke--now sat,
as the sun was sinking, watching with an unfeigned enjoyment the last
gorgeous tints of declining day upon the snow peaks.

Perhaps at that moment the sense of repose was the most grateful of all
sensations to her, for she had passed through a long day of excitement
and fatigue. Like a great actress who had, in her impersonation of a
difficult part, called forth all her powers of voice, look, and gesture,
straining every fibre to develop to the utmost the passion she would
convey, and tearing her very heart to show its agony, she was now
to feel the terrible depression of reaction, the dreary void of the
solitude around her, and the death-like stillness of her own subdued
emotions. But yet, through all this, there was a rapturous enjoyment in
the thought of a task accomplished, an ordeal passed.

On that same morning it was Trover had arrived with Mr. Winthrop,
and her first meeting took place with the friend of her late
husband,--perhaps the one living being whom alone of all the world she
felt a sort of terror at seeing. The fear he inspired was vague, and not
altogether reasonable; but it was there, and she could not master it.
Till she met him, indeed, it almost overcame her; but when she found
him a mild old man, of gentle manners and a quiet presence, unsuspecting
and frank, and extending towards her a compassionate protection, she
rallied quickly from her fears, and played out her part courageously.

How affecting was her grief! It was one of those touching pictures
which, while they thrill the heart, never harrow the feelings. It was
sorrow made beautiful, rather than distressing. Time, of course, long
years, had dulled the bitterness of her woe, and only cast the sombre
coloring of sadness over a nature that might have been--who knows?--made
for joy and brightness. Unused to such scenes, the honest American could
only si