The evening sun sunk lower and lower; the twittering birds flew home to their nests; the cool, soft dew began to fall on Irene's face and hands. She rose with a shiver, as though of mortal cold, and dragged herself back wearily to the villa. Then she felt that she could not endure to meet the cold, curious faces of Mrs. Stuart and her friends just then. She stole quietly up to her own room, closed and locked the door, and threw herself wretchedly down upon the floor, with her face hidden on her arm. She did not know how long she had lain there, wretched, forlorn, despairing, when she was roused by the tap of a servant outside, who desired her presence at dinner. She replied, through the closed door, that she was ill, and did not wish any, and returned to her crouching posture on the floor, as if she found a grim pleasure in physical discomfort, as a set-off to her mental trouble. She felt angry with herself for the fairness that had won Julius Revington's love. "If I had been homely and ill-shapen, instead of fair and graceful, he would never have loved me, and he might then have given me those papers for pure pity's sake, with no such condition attached," she told herself, sadly. Two hours later Mrs. Leslie came tapping softly at the door. "You must let me in, Irene, for I shall keep 'tapping, tapping,' like the raven, until you do," she called out gaily. With a smothered sigh Irene admitted her friend. "What, all in darkness? I beg your pardon, I did not know you had retired," exclaimed the lady. Irene struck a light and then Mrs. Leslie gazed in wonder at the pale, haggard face. "My dear child, what is the matter with you?" she cried out in wonder. "It is nothing--only a headache, I--I have been lying down," she faltered, miserably. The lady glanced at the white, unrumpled bed, and then at Irene, curiously. "Where--upon the floor?" she inquired, with a mixture of sarcasm and amazement. "I--believe so; I felt so bad I did not think," answered Irene, trying to smile. "Poor dear," said the lady, full of womanly compassion; "if I had known you were so ill I would have come up to you long ago. It was too bad your lying here all by yourself in the dark! In your tight dress, too; I am ashamed of myself! But now I am going to undress you and 'put you in your little bed.'" Heedless of Irene's gentle expostulations, she proceeded to follow the kind promptings of her womanly heart, and directly she had the girl dressed in her snowy _robe de nuit_ and nestled among the pillows of the snowy bed. "Now you may shut your eyes, and I will bathe your head with _eau de cologne_ until you fall asleep," she said. "But indeed it does not ache now. Pray do not trouble yourself," Irene expostulated, now thoroughly ashamed of her innocent little fib. The lady sat down and began passing her hand tenderly over the pillow.