Yet a third party would have seen nothing strange in this visit. The etiquette of life went on quietly and with high-bred elegance. Nothing but soft words and gentle courtesies passed from morning till night, yet there was not a happy, or even contented, heart in the house. But the most remarkable change fell upon young Lovel. He became dreamy, almost sad, the brilliancy of his youth seemed to have withered up suddenly. Instead of the dashing gayety, for which he was so remarkable, a pleasant sadness crept over him; he smiled now where he had laughed before. He forgot to perpetuate or renew the little quarrel which had sprung up between himself and Elizabeth on the first day of Barbara Stafford's visit, and though the poor girl went about the house with heavy eyes and flushed cheeks all that day, he did not seem conscious of it. Alas for the woman who is doomed to bring such discord into a household where love has been almost perfect before! Elizabeth was a bright, single-hearted young creature, proud, impulsive, and full of generous qualities. Before night-fall that evening she had repented of her petulance, and pined for a reconciliation with her young lover; still he did not seek her, did not even seem to know that she was suffering, but went away into the garden by himself, and walked moodily up and down the gravel walks. Elizabeth had grown very humble by this time. Quarrels may be pleasant in flirtations, but where real love is, they trouble a good heart as sin would torment an angel. After a little struggle, in which pride leaped in fire to her cheeks, while regret filled her eyes with tears, and set her sweet lips trembling like rosebuds in a fall of summer rain, she went down the walk, holding out her pretty hand, like a naughty child, seized with sudden awkwardness, anxious to confess herself in the wrong, but not knowing how to begin. "Norman," she said, and the little hand fell softly upon his arm, "Norman, I am so sorry!" The young man started and looked up, as if he had been half asleep till then. "Sorry, Elizabeth; and for what?" He spoke naturally, and looked surprised. Anger, even rage, would have been far less cruel than this forgetfulness of words that had wrung her heart to the core. She could not speak, but drew her hand back, looking at him with those large blue eyes slowly filling with anguish. That look must have aroused him had it really fixed his glance; but on the instant, Barbara Stafford came into the garden alone. A white scarf was wound over her head, in double folds, and there was a look in her face, as she turned it with a bend towards the sunset, which reminded the youth of the features of Beatrice Cenci, which he had once seen and almost wept before, in Rome. He forgot the young girl who hovered like a wounded bird in his path, and went towards the woman.