She stood up as she spoke, and glancing at the first word, folded her hands behind her back still holding the volume, with one finger inserted on this particular part. She leaned one shoulder gently against the mantel-corner and looked into the fire. Why did she not look towards the window? A moment before, the garden gate had closed noiselessly behind the tall, well-built figure of a man, who before entering the house, had turned to look aimlessly in at the large square window from which was reflected the warm light of the grate. But how soon his eyes became riveted to the spot standing in front of the fire was the fairest creature he had ever looked on before, the fitful flames were casting their light upon her handsome face, her eyes looked almost wild to-night in their sadness, and her cheeks had an unusual glow. Standing with her hands behind her back, she showed to advantage the perfect _contour_ of her figure, and while he feasted his eyes on her physical loveliness he caught a little word in a sweet sad voice, that recalled lines he was fond of repeating himself; he strained every nerve to catch the tones within. Knowing the verses himself enabled him to understand her readily as she quoted-- "I have said my life is a beautiful thing," "I will crown me with its flowers; I will sing of its glory all day long, For my harp is young and sweet and strong, And the passionate power within my song Shall thrill all the golden hours; And over the sand and over the stone Forever and ever the waves rolled on." She paused a moment, and puckering her brow slightly as if in an effort to remember, she continued, "For under the sky there is not for me, A kindred soul or sympathy, Must I stand alone in Life's busy crowd A living heart in a death-like shroud, And the voice of my wailing o'er sand and stone, Must it die on the waves as they e'er roll on." "That verse is her own," said the still watcher at the window. The girl's voice faded to a sigh, she drew her hands apart and opened the book again, the face outside pressed more eagerly still against the cold pane. "Why!" she suddenly exclaimed, "the words are all marked in pencil! underlined, just where I have been accustomed to emphasize them, does Mr. Rayne?--Oh impossible.--Whose can it be?" She turned impatiently to the fly-leaf and there in a clear masculine hand she saw, "G. E. from the only true friend and bitter enemy he has in the world--himself." The book fell from her fingers. She looked earnestly into the fire, and a sad expression stole over her face.