She knew not that his thought had been utterly self-forgetful. She believed that he had told her, indirectly, of himself, when he had spoken those dreary syllables--"the game is changed. Its soul is gone!" CHAPTER XXVI. LAKESIDE. "Look! are the southern curtains drawn? Fetch me a fan, and so begone! . . . . . Rain me sweet odors on the air, And wheel me up my Indian chair; And spread some book not overwise Flat out before my sleepy eyes." O. W. HOLMES. The Rushleighs' breakfast room at Lakeside was very lovely in a summer's morning. Looking off, northwestwardly, across the head of the Pond, the long windows, opening down to the piazza, let in all the light and joy of the early day, and that indescribable freshness born from the union of woods and water. Faith had come down long before the others, this fair Wednesday morning. Mr. Rushleigh found her, when he entered, sitting by a window--a book upon her lap, to be sure--but her eyes away off over the lake, and a look in them that told of thoughts horizoned yet more distantly. Last night, he had brought home Paul's first letter. When he gave it to her, at tea time, with a gay and kindly word, the color that deepened vividly upon her face, and the quiet way in which she laid it down beside her plate, were nothing strange, perhaps; but--was he wrong? the eyes that drooped so quickly as the blushes rose, and then lifted themselves again so timidly to him as he next addressed her, were surely brimmed with feeling that was not quite, or wholly glad. And now, this wistful, silent, musing, far-off look! "Good morning, Faithie!" "Good morning." And the glance came back--the reverie was broken--Faith's spirit informed her visible presence again, and bade him true and gentle welcome. "You haven't your morning paper yet? I'll bring it. Thomas left it in the library, I think. He came back from the early train, half an hour ago." "Can't you women tell what's the matter with each other?" said Mr. Rushleigh to his daughter, who entered by the other door, as Faith went out into the hall. "What ails Faith, Margaret?" "Nothing of consequence, I think. She is tired with all that has been going on, lately. And then she's the shyest little thing!" "It's a sort of shyness that don't look so happy as it might, it seems to me. And what has become of Paul's diamonds, I wonder? I went with him to choose some, last week. I thought I should see them next upon her finger." Margaret opened her eyes widely. Of course, this was the first she had heard of the diamonds. Where could they be, indeed? Was anything wrong? They had not surely quarreled!