Lenore smiled slightly; but there was no actual welcome in her face as she said, in her usual, gentle tone: “Certes. As ever, I was idle and unthinking. Come thou in, Laure, and sit where thou canst gaze out upon the sea. Look, there is a glint of sun on it, even through the folds of the clouds.” Laure looked to where she pointed, and then came silently over and seated herself in a large chair that stood between the bed and the window, in a little jut in the wall. Her eyes were turned not to the many-paned glass, however, but rather upon the figure of Lenore, who was now looking off through a half-opened pane, through which blew fitful gusts of icy wind. The two young women remained here in silence for some moments, each in her own position, thinking silently. Suddenly, however, Laure shivered, and then sprang to her feet, saying: “Thou’lt surely freeze here! Let me cover thee.” She took up a thick coverlet that lay over the foot of the bed and placed it, folded double, upon Lenore’s form. Then, glancing down into the milk-white face, she said again: “Let me bring thee something—a little food—some wine. Thou’rt so pale—so ill!” “Peace, Laure! I am comfortable. I lie thus for hours every day. Ah! for how many hours in the past months—” She looked up into Laure’s face, and the eyes of the two women met, in an unfathomable gaze. Then Laure went slowly back to her place, wishing that she might close the window, but not daring to interfere with her sister’s desired sight of the sea. After she had sat down, Lenore once more lost herself in a reverie, which, however, her companion did not respect. “Lenore,” she said in a low, rather melancholy voice, “how is it that thou canst endure this life of thine,—thou, young and bright and gay and all unused to this dim dwelling; how hath such existence not already killed thee? Tell me, how hast thou fared since Gerault went?” Lenore turned her eyes from the sea and fixed them on Laure’s face. She wondered a little why she did not resent the question, not realizing that it was the first throb of natural understanding that had come to her out of Le Crépuscule. Lenore’s first impulse of affection toward her new sister had altered a little in the past two weeks. Since she had heard and understood the story of Laure’s last months, the white-souled girl had shrunk from contact with her whose career lay shrouded in so black a depth. Yet now Laure’s tone, as she spoke, and, more than that, the expression in her eyes, touched a key in Lenore’s nature that had long been unsounded, and which brought a tremor of unwonted feeling to her heart. Quickly repressing the impulse toward tears, she gave a moment’s pause, and then answered in a dreamy, reflective way, as if she were for the first time examining the array of her own emotions,—