The utterly unexpected revelation that Lenore had made to madame drew the two women into a tender intimacy that brought a holy joy to both of them. That most beautiful, most priceless flowering of Lenore’s life gave to her nature an added sweetness, and to her soul a new depth that rendered her incomparably beautiful in the eyes of every one around her. The secret remained a secret between her and her new-made mother, and for this reason the happiness of the two was as inexplicable as it was joyous for the rest of the Castle. Alixe, standing jealously without the gate of this golden citadel, into which she had frequent glimpses, wondered at its brightness as much as she wondered at its existence at all. Day by day Lenore grew beautiful, and day by day the look of content upon her face became more marked, until it was marvelled at how she had forgotten her bereavement. And Eleanore—Madame Eleanore—found herself growing young again in the youth of Gerault’s bride; and in her love for the beautiful, tranquil girl she learned a lesson in patience that fifty years of trial and sorrow had never brought her. When Lenore finally rose from her bed she did not return to the mornings in the spinning-room; and, since madame must perforce be there to oversee the work, Alixe took her frame or her wheel to Lenore’s chamber, and sat there through the morning hours. Save for the fact that Alixe could not be addressed on the subject nearest her heart, Lenore probably enjoyed these periods of the younger woman’s company quite as much as those graver times with madame. Both of them were young, and Alixe, having a nature the individuality of which nothing could suppress, knew more of the gayeties of youth than one could have thought possible, considering her opportunities. This jumped well with Lenore’s disposition, for her own sunny nature would have shone through any cloud-thickness, provided there was some one to catch the beam and reflect it back to her. The two talked on every conceivable subject, but generally reverted to one common interest before many hours had gone. This was Nature: of which Lenore had been vaguely, but none the less passionately fond; and of which Alixe, in her lonely life, had made a beautiful and minute study. The two of them together watched the death of the summer, and saw autumn weave its full woof, from the rich colors of golden harvest and purple vine to the melancholy brown and gray of dead moorland and leafless branch. And when the dreariness of November came upon the land, there remained, to their keen eyes, the sea—the sea that is never twice the same—the sea whose beauties cannot die.