“Not quite the same the springtime seems to me, Since that sad season when in separate ways Our paths diverged. There are no more such days As dawned for us in that last time when we Dwelt in the realm of dreams, illusive dreams; Spring may be just as fair now, but it seems Not quite the same.” “Ah, good evening, Mr. Philmore! I have been expecting you. Have this chair, please.” As I took the proffered seat I gazed steadily at my hostess. A woman in possession of all her natural charms, a picture of health, a vision of grace and an example of nobility. Time had softened her features; the sweetness of childhood had grown tenfold in the process of matronly perfection. The erectness of carriage, the finely traced features, the shapely hand and dainty foot, so highly arched, denoted the purest type of refinement, while no artist conceived more graceful curves than those which were so plainly noticeable as one ran one’s eyes from head to feet; gowned in some soft, clinging black silk, the contour of her figure was a feast for the eyes of gods. The soft, dulcet tones in which she plainly articulated, were of sufficient sweetness to attract one to her if that were the only charm which she could bring to bear. Nothing had been left undone in the furnishing of the elegant house in which she lived; rich draperies adorned the walls, tapestry of the rarest quality fittingly relieved the handsome oriental rugs and handsomely frescoed ceilings. Potted plants placed here and there sent out such a fragrant odor that it was almost impossible for one to believe that it was midwinter and that the mercury hovered uncomfortably near zero. The bric-a-brac and pictures were so well selected and artistically arranged that one could readily see the rare good taste and culture which was a dominant feature in the appointment of the entire establishment. The cheeriness seemed to add a halo to the surroundings; the perfect harmony with which all things were blended seemed to soften one’s nature to a sense of responsibility toward things infinite. Large, liquid brown eyes rested softly on me, and the satiny complexion of Mrs. Penway glowed with such a beaming radiance of congeniality that despite her forty or more years, I felt as though I were basking in the sunshine of youthful smiles. Coupled with all the beauty and symmetry there was a distinct imprint of sadness on her features, which was readily detected. They were not the hardened lines which denote misery and want as associates to suffering, not the expression of hardship, but rather that “resigned to duty” look. After commenting on the weather and general topics of the day I came to the point by asking Mrs. Penway if she had her narration written. “No; I think, Mr. Philmore, that I shall recite the incidents to you as they transpired and ask you to be kind enough to arrange the statement into sentences best suited to your purpose.”