‘You don’t know who I am or you would n’t speak like that,’ said Rosalie with dignity; adding, with a softer inflexion of her voice: ‘The right man has come—and gone. I am a widow.’ And unclasping the hands beneath her head, she thrust forward the left one with the shining wedding-ring. Confusion and concern now replaced the careless gaiety of the stranger’s face. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said earnestly; ‘I did not know. You look so young—I could not guess—but I am very sorry for my foolish talk.’ ‘I was married four years,’ said Rosalie softly. Something gentle and kindly about the man invited confidence. ‘My poor Elias has only been dead three months.’ She paused abruptly, astonished at the sudden expression of blank bewilderment on the other’s face. ‘Your husband’s name was Elias’ he queried. ‘I beg your pardon for what must seem idle curiosity. Was it—was it his grave that I saw you visiting the other day?’ ‘Yes,’ said Rosalie, sighing and blushing; ‘yes: I—I thought I was alone.’ ‘_Aged sixty-two_!’ quoted the artist to himself, and he raised his hand to his mouth for a moment to conceal its tell-tale quivering. He thought of the girl’s elastic gait on the morning when he had first seen her, and scrutinised once more the blooming face and admirably proportioned form before him; then, shaking his head slowly, went on with his work. ‘Perhaps I shall call this picture “The Sleeping Beauty,”’ he observed after a pause, with apparent irrelevance. ‘You know the story, don’t you?’ ‘Yes, but I don’t think it would be a good name. She was a Princess who went to sleep in a palace in the wood, and I am just I—in my working dress, asleep in a cornfield.’ ‘These are mere details,’ said he. ‘The main points of the story are the same. She woke up all right, you know. You will wake up some day, too, my beauty.’ He put such meaning into the words, and smiled down at her so oddly, that she felt confused and uncomfortable. It was not that her pride was wounded at the liberty he had taken in applying such a term to her: his admiration was so evidently impersonal that it could not offend her, and, moreover, his allusion to his wife and children had had a tranquillising effect. But the man’s look and tone when he made this strange remark filled her with vague disquietude; both betrayed a secret amusement mingled with something like compassion. ‘She would wake up some day,’ he said; but she did not want to wake up! She was quite happy—at least, as happy as could be in her bereaved state—she asked nothing more from life. It would be certainly more unpleasant than the reverse to discover that life had surprises in store for her. But why need she trouble herself about a prophecy so idly uttered, and by an absolute stranger? Nevertheless, she did trouble herself, not only throughout the remainder of the time that the artist was completing his sketch, but frequently afterwards.