And Lyle, with that face of wondrous beauty, yet calm and inscrutable as that of the sphinx, had any power as yet passed over the hidden depths of her woman's nature, and troubled the waters? Were those eyes, with their far-away look, gazing into the past with its strange darkness and mystery, or striving to pierce the dim, impenetrable veil of the future? No one could say; perhaps she herself was scarcely conscious, but as they landed, Miss Gladden noted the new expression dawning in her eyes, and as the friends and lovers separated for the night, each one avowing that day to have been one of the most delightful of their whole lives, she wound her arm about Lyle in sisterly fashion, and drew her into her own room. Lyle, as was her custom, dropped upon a low seat beside her friend, but was silent. "Are you looking backward or forward, to-night, Lyle?" asked Miss Gladden, taking the lovely face in both her hands, and gazing into the beautiful eyes. Lyle's color deepened slightly, as she replied: "I hardly know; it seems sometimes as if I were looking into an altogether different life from this, a different world from that in which I have lived." "How so, my dear?" inquired her friend. "I scarcely know how to describe it myself," she replied; then asked abruptly, "Miss Gladden, do you believe we have ever had an existence prior to this? that we have lived on earth before, only amid different surroundings?" "No," answered Miss Gladden, "I can see no reason for such a belief as that; but why do you ask?" "Only because it seems sometimes as if that were the only way in which I could account for some of my strange impressions and feelings." "Tell me about them," said Miss Gladden, interested. "They are so vague," Lyle replied, "I hardly know how to describe them, but I have always felt them, more or less. When I read of life amid scenes of refinement and beauty, there is always an indefinable sense of familiarity about it all; and since you and Mr. Houston have been here, and I have lived such a different life,--especially since we have sung together so much,--the impression is much more vivid than before; even the music seems familiar, as if I had heard it all, or something like it, long ago, and yet it is utterly impossible, living the life I have. It must have been only in my dreams, those strange dreams I used to have so often, and which come to me even now." "And what are these dreams, dear? You have never before spoken to me of them."