"Is the past, then, so full of bitterness?" I asked, the Colonel's strange warning recurring to me at the same moment. "Its bitterness is combined with regrets," she answered huskily, in a low voice. "But you, young, bright, happy, and talented, who need not think of the trials of everyday life, should surely have no regrets so deep as to cause you this anxiety and despair," I said, with a feeling of tenderness. "I am ten years older than you, therefore I may be permitted to speak like this, even though my words may sound presumptuous." "Continue," she exclaimed. "I assure you that in my present position I appreciate any words of sympathy." "You have my deepest sympathy, Miss Anson; of that I assure you," I declared, detecting in her words a desire to confide in me. "If at your age you already desire to recommence life, your past cannot have been a happy one." "It has been far from happy," she answered in a strange, mechanical voice. "Sometimes I think that I am the unhappiest woman in all the world." "No, no," I hastened to reassure her. "We all, when in trouble, imagine that our burden is greater than that of any of our fellows, and that while others escape, upon us alone fall the graver misfortunes." "I know, I know," she said. "But a pleasant face and an air of carelessness ofttimes conceal the most sorrowful heart. It is so in my case." "And your sorrow causes you regret, and makes you wish to end your present life and commence afresh," I said gravely. "To myself, ignorant of the circuit stances, it would seem as though you repented of some act or other." "What do you mean?" she gasped quickly, looking at me with a strange expression in her dark eyes. "I do not repent--I repent nothing!" I saw that I had made a grave mistake. In my fond and short-sighted enthusiasm I had allowed myself to speak a little too confidentially, whereupon her natural dignity had instantly rebelled. At once I apologised, and in an instant she became appeased. "I regret extremely that you should have such a weight of anxiety upon your heart," I said. "If I can do anything to assist you, rely upon me." "You are extremely kind," she answered in a gloomy tone; "but there is nothing--absolutely nothing." "I really can't understand the reason why, with every happiness around you, you should find yourself thus plunged in this despair," I remarked, puzzled. "Your home life is, I presume, happy enough?" "Perfectly. I am entirely my own mistress, save in those things which might break through the ordinary conventionalities of life. I must admit to you that I am rather unconventional sometimes."