“Oh, will she call? Shall I see her?” Katy asked, beginning to feel alarmed at the very thought of Sybil Grey, with all her polish and manner.
“She is spending the winter in New Orleans with her late husband’s relatives. She will not return till spring,” Wilford replied. “But do not look so distressed, for I tell you solemnly that I never loved another as I love you, my wife. Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” and Katy’s head drooped upon his shoulder.
She was satisfied with regard to Sybil Grandon, only hoping she would not have to meet her when she came home. But the picture. Whose was that? Not Sybil’s certainly, else Juno would have known. The picture troubled her, but she dared not speak of it, Wilford had seemed so angry at Juno. Still, she would probe him a little further, and so she continued:
“I do believe you, and if I ever see this Sybil I will try to imitate her; but tell me, if, after her, there was among your friends one better than the rest, one almost as dear as I am, one whom you sometimes remember even now—is she living, or is she dead?”
Wilford thought of that humble grave far off in St. Mary’s churchyard, the grave whose headstone bore the inscription: “Genevra Lambert, aged 22,” and he answered quickly:
“If there ever was such a one, she certainly is not living. Are you satisfied?”
Katy answered that she was, but perfect confidence in her husband’s affection had been terribly shaken by Juno’s avowal and his partial admission of an earlier love, and Katy’s heart was too full to sleep, even after she had retired. Visions of Sybil Grey, blended with visions of another whom she called the “dead fancy,” flitted before her mind, as she lay awake, while hour after hour went by, until tired nature could endure no longer, and just as the great city was waking up and the rattle of wheels was beginning to be heard upon the distant pavements, she fell away to sleep.
Extracts from bell Cameron’s diary.
New York, December—.
After German philosophy and Hamilton’s metaphysics, it is a great relief to have introduced into the family an entirely new element—a character the dissection of which is at once a novelty and a recreation. It is absolutely refreshing, and I find myself returning to my books with increased vigor after an encounter with that simple-hearted, unsophisticated, innocent-minded creature, our sister-in-law, Mrs. Wilford Cameron. Such pictures as Juno and I used to draw of the stately personage who was one day coming to us as Wilford’s wife, and of whom even mother was to stand in awe. Alas! how hath our idol fallen! Tell it not in Gath, nor yet in Gotham! And still I rather like the little creature, who, the very first night, nearly choked mother to death, giving her lace streamers