"How noble and calm was that forehead, 'Neath its tresses of dark curling hair; The sadness of thought slept upon it, And a look that a seraph might wear." "My darling," he bent and looked into the face that lay against his shoulder, "you are not well--you do not look like my bright, happy bird. What is it--what has troubled you?" "Nothing; indeed it is nothing. I have the least bit of a headache, but it is wearing off in the joy of seeing you," she answered, smiling a little, and then, woman-like, touched by a sympathizing word, breaking into tears and sobbing against his shoulder. He put his arm around her, inexpressibly shocked and pained. "Something _has_ troubled you, and I know it. Tell me, Lulu, or I cannot be content to cross the ocean leaving you with some untold grief in your happy young heart. Come, you do not have any secrets from brother Willie." "No, no, it is nothing, dear brother, but I am so nervous of late--have learned to be a fashionable lady, you know," smiling faintly to allay his anxiety, "and I am so shocked to think you are going away--so far, and so _soon_--how long do you mean to stay?" "I cannot tell. I shall write to you often, anyhow, so that you and mother shall not miss me so much. I shall throw all my powers into this undertaking. And, Lulu, I think--that is--I should like to see _her_ and say good-by--if you think she would see any one?" "She would see you, certainly; she is very fond of you; talks often of you. You can go down into the conservatory; she was there a little while since. I know she is there still. After you tell her good-by, you will come back to me--will you?" "Yes, dear," he answered, as he rose and left her, passing on through the continuation of the elegant suite of rooms leading out to the door of the conservatory and glancing in for her he sought. She was there. He caught his breath with a pang as he saw the slender figure standing under a slim young palm tree, looking like a sculptured image of thought with her downcast eyes and gravely quiet lips. A furred, white morning robe of fine French merino, girded at the waist by silken white cords and tassels, fell softly about her form and trailed its sweeping length on the marble floor. There were faint blue shadows around the glorious eyes, though they may have been but the shadow of the sweeping black lashes--there was a glow but no color on the pure, fragile cheek, and a dumb suggestion of quiet martyrdom in the droop of the hands that loosely clasped each other, as "Stiller than chiseled marble standing there, A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair," the eyes of Captain Clendenon dwell on her for a moment with a mist before their sight, and then--but then she lifted the sweeping lids of those rare pansy-vailed eyes, and looked up at him. The ghost of a smile touched her lips as she gave him her hand.