Through the first day of return to the old routine, madame was fully occupied in making a pretence at cheerfulness and in inducing those around her to hide their sadness. But afterwards, when chatter and smiles began to come naturally back to the young lips, and the gayety of youth to shine from their eyes again, she suddenly relaxed her strain, and let her mind sink into what depths it would. How dim with misery was the September air! Hope had gone out of her life; and the thought of joy was a mockery. Throughout her whole world there was not a single spot of brightness on which to feast her tired eyes. Even imagination had fled, and there remained to her only a vista of unending, monotonous days, the one so like the other that she should soon forget the passage of time. And this future was inevitable. Le Crépuscule was here, and she must keep to it. She had no other refuge save a nunnery; and that merest suggestion was terrible to her. Gerault’s widow, the young Lenore, was left; yet she would be infinitely happier to go back to the home of her youth. There was a cry of despair in Eleanore’s heart at this realization, and she fought with herself for a long time before finally she was wrought to the point of going to Lenore and counselling her return to her father’s roof. Yet Eleanore brought herself to this; for she felt that this last sacrifice was one of duty: that she had no right forever to shut the youth and beauty of the young life into the grim shadows of Le Crépuscule. On the evening of the third day of her new struggle Eleanore went, with woe in her heart, to the door of Lenore’s room. The apartment was flooded with the light of sunset, so that Lenore, lying in the very midst of it, seemed to be resting in a sea of glowing gold. When Eleanore entered, the young girl turned, with a little smile of pleasure, and said,— “Thou’rt very kind to come to me here while I lie thus in idlesse. Indeed, I see not how thou shouldst bear with me that I do nothing when all the Castle is at work.” “Bear with thee! My child, thou hast given us nothing to bear. Thou hast rather brought into the Castle a light that will burn always in our hearts. And, in thy great grief, thou shalt get what comfort may be for thee from whatever thou canst find. Now, indeed, dear child, I am come to make a pleading that breaketh my heart; yet we have done so much wrong to thy fair young life, that it is not in me further to blight it.” She went over to the bedside, and Lenore, sitting up, took one of the strong white hands in her own delicate fingers and pressed it to her lips. Then, while Eleanore bent close over her, she said softly,— “What is this thing that pains thee? Surely thou’lt not think that I could do aught to hurt thee?” “Yes, for this will bring happiness back into thy heart.” “Happiness!”