“Monica,” she said, looking straight into her eyes, “you are changed—you are different from what you were in London—different even from what you were in Scotland, though I saw a change then. I don’t know how to express it, but you are beautified—glorified. What is it? What has changed you since I first knew you?” Monica knew right well; but some feelings could not be translated into words. “I am very happy,” she said, quietly. “If there is any change, that must be the cause.” “Happier than you have ever been before?” “Yes; I think every week makes me happier. I learn to know my husband better and better, you see.” A sudden wistful sadness flashed into the eyes so steadily regarding her. Monica saw it before it had been blotted out by the arch drollery of the look that immediately succeeded. “And it does not wear off, Monica? Sometimes it does, you know—after a time. Will it ever, in your case, do you think?” “I think not,” she answered. “And I think not, too,” answered Beatrice. “Ah me! How happy some people are!” She laughed, but there was something of bitterness in the tone. Monica looked at her seriously. “Are you not happy, Beatrice?” The girl’s audacious smile beamed out over her face. “Don’t I look so?” “Sometimes—not always.” “One must have variety before all things, you know,” was the gay answer. “It would never do to be always in the same style—it lacks piquancy after a time. Now let me have time to beautify myself in harmony with this most charming of old places, and come back for me when you are dressed; I feel as if I should lose my way, or see bogies in these delightful corridors and staircases.” And Monica left her guest as desired, coming back, half an hour later, to find her transformed into the semblance of some pictured dame of a century or two gone by, in stiff amber brocade, quaintly cut about the neck and sleeves, and relieved here and there by dazzling scarlet blossoms. Beatrice never at any time looked like anybody else, but to-night she was particularly, strikingly original. “Ah, you black-robed queen, you will just do as a foil for me!” was the greeting Monica received. “Whenever I see you in any garb, no matter what it is, I always think it is just one that suits you best of everything. Are you having a dinner-party to-night?” “Not exactly. A few men are coming, who have asked Randolph to shoot since we came back. You and I are the only ladies.” And then they went down to the empty drawing-room a good half-hour before any one else was likely to appear. Beatrice chatted away very brightly. She seemed in gay spirits, and had a great deal to tell of what had passed since their farewell in Scotland a month or two ago.