"I do not believe I could go into a rapture over any thing in the world," she broke out. "I am so tired of my life--so tired of it, Claude, that I do not believe I could get up an interest in a single thing." "I hope you feel some little interest in me," he said. "I--I--I cannot tell. I think even bitterest pain would be better than the dead monotony that is killing me." She remembered those words in after years, and repented of them when repentance was in vain. "Surely you might smile now," said Claude. "I hope you do not find sitting by my side on this lovely evening monotonous." She laughed, but the laugh had no music in it. "No, I cannot say that I do; but you are going away soon, you tell me, and then the only gleam of sunshine in my life will fade, and all will be darkness again." "What has depressed you so much?" he asked. "You are not yourself to-day." "Shall I tell you what my day has been like?" she said. "Shall I describe it from the hour when the first sunbeams woke me this morning until now?" He took both the small white hands in his. "Yes, tell me; but be merciful, and let me hear that the thought of meeting me has cheered you." "It has been the only gleam of brightness," she said, so frankly that the very frankness of the words seemed not to displease him. "It was just six when I woke. I could hear the birds singing, and I knew how cool and fresh and dewy everything was. I dressed myself very quickly and went down-stairs. The great house was all darkness and silence. I had forgotten that Lady Vaughan does not allow the front or back doors to be opened until after breakfast. I thought the birds were calling me, and the branches of the trees seemed to beckon me; but I was obliged to go back to my own room, and sit there till the gong sounded for breakfast." "Poor child!" he said caressingly. "Nay, do not pity me. Listen. The breakfast-room is dark and gloomy; Lady Vaughan always has the windows closed to keep out the air, and the blinds drawn to keep out the sun; flowers give her the headache, and the birds make too much noise. So, with every beautiful sound and sight most carefully excluded, we sit down to breakfast, when the conversation never varies." "Of what does it consist?" asked the young lover, beginning to pity the young girl, though amused by her recital.