"Friends," began Stillwater, in response to a toast from Lord Canning, "I’m in the best of health and spirits. My family are all around me"—he rested his hand on his wife’s head—"I hope to keep them so, for many a long day. We can’t reckon on the future, but to-night I’m a happy man!" He kissed his wife, whose eyes had filled with a quick rush of tears. Indiana jumped up and threw herself upon his breast, with a very sure premonition that she would soon leave him. "Our host again!" proposed Lord Stafford. His nephew drank the toast, feeling a sense of guilt that he was destined so shortly to ruffle the calm sea of Stillwater’s domestic horizon. "My distinguished guests have announced their intention of returning to England"—holding Indiana against his breast. "May they find their dear ones well and happy, and Godspeed to them!" "Godspeed to them!" echoed Glen. "And a quick leave-taking!" he thought grimly. Mrs. Bunker’s happy philosophy was colored for the moment with a tinge of pessimism. "What a blind game it is," she whispered to Lord Canning. "He may be wishing ’Godspeed’ to the baby I laid in his arms. Look at Indiana, she hasn’t raised her head." "Well, Indiana," said Stillwater, "aren’t you going to drink ’Godspeed’ to them?" He held the glass to her lips, raising her head from his breast. Their eyes were all upon her,—Lord Canning’s tenderly anxious, his uncle’s laughing, Mrs. Bunker’s significant, and Glen’s suspicious and jealous. "Godspeed to them!" she repeated, gaily raising her glass. When they finally arose from supper, Glen immediately disappeared. "I must get away from that awful white light," he thought, walking restlessly through the dark woods. "It’s beating on my brain and driving me mad." His soul foreboded very truly that Indiana was lost to him. The soul is our Cassandra. It mourns and prophecies, while the heart is forever holding a carnival. A young girl decking herself with flowers for a fete. There is a shrouded form behind her in the mirror. It whispers, "Those flowers are blossoms of death. The fete for which you are robing, is a funeral." But, unhearing, unseeing, thinking of lovers and dancing, she decks herself in the mirror, a song on her lips.