The two passed on, looking, in their cool elegance, as if life were the most pleasant thing; as though the very perfume of their garments would preserve them from that plague called trouble. "Justine," said Mrs. Falchion, "there is one law stranger than all; the law of coincidence. Perhaps the convenience of modern travel assists it, but fate is in it also. Events run in circles. People connected with them travel that way also. We pass and re-pass each other many times, but on different paths, until we come close and see each other face to face." She was speaking almost the very words which Roscoe had spoken to me. But perhaps there was nothing strange in that. "Yes, madame," replied Justine; "it is so, but there is a law greater than coincidence." "What, Justine?" "The law of love, which is just and merciful, and would give peace instead of trouble." Mrs. Falchion looked closely at Justine, and, after a moment, evidently satisfied, said: "What do you know of love?" Justine tried hard for composure, and answered gently: "I loved my brother Hector." "And did it make you just and merciful and--an angel?" "Madame, you could answer that better. But it has not made me be at war; it has made me patient." "Your love--for your brother--has made you that?" Again she looked keenly, but Justine now showed nothing but earnestness. "Yes, madame." Mrs. Falchion paused for a moment, and seemed intent on the beauty of the pine-belted hills, capped by snowy peaks, and wrapped in a most hearty yet delicate colour. The red of her parasol threw a warm soft ness upon her face. She spoke now without looking at Justine. "Justine, did you ever love any one besides your brother?--I mean another man." Justine was silent for a moment, and then she said: "Yes, once." She was looking at the hills now, and Mrs. Falchion at her. "And you were happy?" Here Mrs. Falchion abstractedly toyed with a piece of lace on Justine's arm. Such acts were unusual with her. "I was happy--in loving." "Why did you not marry?" "Madame--it was impossible--quite." This, with hesitation and the slightest accent of pain. "Why impossible? You have good looks, you were born a lady; you have a foolish heart--the fond are foolish." She watched the girl keenly, the hand ceased to toy with the lace, and caught the arm itself--"Why impossible?" "Madame, he did not love me, he never could." "Did he know of your love?" "Oh no, no!" This with trouble in her voice. "And you have never forgotten?" The catechism was merciless; but Mrs. Falchion was not merely malicious. She was inquiring of a thing infinitely important to her. She was searching the heart of another, not only because she was suspicious, but because she wanted to know herself better. "It is easy to remember." "Is it long since you saw him?"