"Miss Clendenon received a letter from her brother yesterday--she came around to tell me this morning--in which he stated there was positively not the slightest cue yet. The supposition is that--oh, Norah, think of it!--is that my little boy is _dead_. Captain Clendenon is coming home by Christmas--he has been in Europe ever since February, now, and even he, hopeful as he was, has given up the search in vain!" "And your husband, ma'am? Has he also given up the search? Is he, too, coming home?" asked Norah, cautiously. "He has put the whole affair in the hands of skillful detectives to be kept up six months longer; then if unsuccessful to be abandoned as hopeless. Captain Clendenon has the management of his business affairs, and will take charge of this as of the others. Senator Winans himself, Norah, has gone over to Paris--to France." "To France?" Norah echoes in surprise, "why there is a war there--the French are fighting the Dutch." "Yes, there is a war there," comes the low reply, "my husband is by birth a Louisianian, Norah, and partly, I believe, of French extraction--his whole sympathies are with that nation. He has joined the French army and is gone to fight the Germans--ah! there goes my ring--pick it up, Norah. It has rolled away under the sofa." Norah obeys and in silence replaces the ring on the little hand that in spite of the warmth pervading the room is cold and icy as she takes it in hers. "You are nervous," she ventures to say, watching the still, impassive face, "will you take some valerian, wine, or something?" "Nothing, Norah," but, all the same, Norah goes out and comes back with a silver salver holding a small Venetian goblet of ruby wine. "Just a few drops," she urges with loving voice, and touching the glass to the pale lips. "I think you always take your own way, Norah," her mistress answers, as she takes the goblet and drains it obediently. "Now, finish my hair, please, and you can go. It is almost eleven o'clock." Silently Norah obeys, gathering up the shining mass in her hands, and twisting it into a burnished coil at the back of the small head where she confines it with a diminutive silver comb. Then with a wistful sigh, and pitying backward glance, she says good-night and Grace is left alone. Alone! how cruelly alone! All her life-time now it seems to her she will be thus solitary. She leans her small head back, and stares vacantly at the face whose wondrous beauty is reflected there in the mirror, and a light scornful smile curves her lips as she thinks: "Is this the form-- That won his praise night and morn? She thought: my spirit is here alone, Walks forgotten, and is forlorn."