“I suppose it was only imagination.” Trivial words; yet he knew and she felt that a crisis in their lives was at hand. It is thus, I am told, that soldiers will often joke and babble of nothings when crouched along the frowning edge of battle. “Only imagination,” said he, catching at the words. (They were walking slowly, side by side, from the dining-room to the parlor.) “And is there anything else in life worth living for? The facts of life, what are they but dry crusts, the merest husks, which content the body, perhaps, while leaving the soul unsatisfied?” It was to minor chords, as I have said somewhere above, that Mary’s nature gave readiest response; and these had been struck with no uncertain hand. “You speak feelingly,” said she, without looking up. “And no wonder; for of these husks of life—husks without a kernel—I have had my share; but of late—” They had reached the parlor window and found the piazza deserted. How inconsistent is the human heart, more especially that of woman. Mary had longed to find herself alone, for one short quarter of an hour, with this man who had so troubled her peace. She had confidence in her woman’s tact,—felt sure that, if opportunity were given, she could pluck away the mask which concealed his heart, without revealing her own. Strangely enough, during all the time they had been under one roof, she had not had such an opportunity. This had, in fact, been one cause of her troubled curiosity. He had seemed studiously to avoid finding himself alone with her, and with her only of all the girls. It had come now,—come so suddenly,—and she trembled. She leaned out of the window. “They are all gone,” said she, withdrawing her head and looking up at the Don with a scared look. Was not that sinking of the heart a presage of sorrow? Would it not have been better for thee, poor child, to have hearkened to the voice of its Cassandra-throbs? Better to have hastened to the Hall, whence thou couldst even now hear issuing the sounds of merry music, and found safety in numbers? Something whispered this in her fluttering heart. “But of late,” repeated the man of her destiny. “Let us join our friends in the Hall,” said she, faintly. Wise words, but spoken too late. Too late; for she felt herself compassed round about by a nameless spell that would not be broken; entwined in cords soft as silk but strong as fate. “They seem to be getting on famously without us.” “Yes, but I thought—” “Thought what?” “I thought you must be longing to hear Lucy play.” And she gave a hasty glance at his face. There was a revelation in the look that met hers. The veil that had darkened her vision fell away. Through those glorious eyes of his, so full of tender flame, she saw into his heart of hearts; and no image of Lucy was imprinted thereon; nor had ever been. ’Twas her own, instead, sat enthroned there.