Dressed in the famous muslin, the rarest quality of her beauty, a certain lurking mystery, was lost amid furbelows which simply emphasized her youth. Now clothed in a sober little frock that appeared to be as much part of her as its smooth bark is part of a sapling, there was nothing to divert attention from her actual self. There she sat with her book open on her lap, a kind of sibyl, while about her hummed and buzzed and fluttered tribes of nimble-bodied insects. Great blundering bees pilfered rude kisses from the willing lips of some pink phlox swaying at her knee, a butterfly came to rest on the tomb and even crawled with curious, quivering antennae toward the hand outspread on the stone. A thrush poured out its heart from a little whip of a tree over her head. In the midst of this place of death, she spoke compellingly of life. "I've come!" Emil's voice trembled. The blood beat in his temples. "How long have you been here?" he questioned, as he opened his hand grudgingly and released her fingers. "How much have I missed of you?" She ignored the form of the question. "Oh, I've not been here long, I think," with disconcerting calmness, "though when I have a book I lose all track of time." At this unexpectedly repressing manner, he moved a few paces off. "What is your book?" he inquired after a pause. "'Impressions of the Nile Country,'" and she made a motion as if to hand him the volume. But he kept his face away. Thereupon she plucked a spear of grass and placed it carefully between the pages, while a peculiarly significant and feminine expression played about her mouth. "Oh," she sighed with sudden fervour, "how I should like to travel! particularly how I should love to travel in Egypt." "But why Egypt?" and he swung round. "The sphinx;" she explained briefly. "It sits there gazing before it forever and forever, and it never reveals the secret of the hands that fashioned it, while the sun scorches it and the sands blow over it and will finally throttle it, I suppose, but it will never tell." With her arms crossed on her lap, she was staring at a near-by shrub. It was a starved old rose-bush which had long since ceased to bear, but she seemed to see in it a vision, for a smile unclosed her lips and narrowed her eyes. She looked up at him and her bosom lifted. "Yes," she repeated softly, "I should like mightily to see the sphinx." He was regarding her with a strange, fixed attention. Now he thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket with a convulsive movement. "You're something by way of being a sphinx yourself," he said unsteadily.