Something in his tone and manner struck her, and,
eyeing him with soft wonder, she exclaimed, “How
changed you are!”
“Need you tell me that?” And he glanced
at his helpless limbs with a bitter yet pathetic look
of patience.
“No, no—not so! I mean in mind,
not body. Once you were gay and careless, eager
and fiery, like Jasper; now you are grave and quiet,
or cheerful, and so very kind. Yet, in spite
of illness and loss, you seem twice the man you were,
and something wins respect, as well as admiration—and
love.”
Her dark eyes filled as the last word left her lips,
and the beauty of a touched heart shone in her face.
Maurice looked up quickly, asking with sudden earnestness,
“Do you see it? Then it is true. Yes,
I am changed, thank God! And she has done
it.”
“Who?” demanded his companion jealously.
“Octavia. Unconsciously, yet surely, she
has done much for me, and this year of seeming loss
and misery has been the happiest, most profitable
of my life. I have often heard that afflictions
were the best teachers, and I believe it now.”
Mrs. Snowdon shook her head sadly.
“Not always; they are tormentors to some.
But don’t preach, Maurice. I am still a
sinner, though you incline to sainthood, and I have
one question more to ask. What was it that took
you and Jasper so suddenly away from Paris?”
“That I can never tell you.”
“I shall discover it for myself, then.”
“It is impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible to a determined woman.”
“You can neither wring, surprise, nor bribe
this secret from the two persons who hold it.
I beg of you to let it rest,” said Treherne
earnestly.
“I have a clue, and I shall follow it; for I
am convinced that something is wrong, and you are—”
“Dear Mrs. Snowdon, are you so charmed with
the birds that you forget your fellow-beings, or so
charmed with one fellow-being that you forget the
birds?”
As the sudden question startled both, Rose Talbot
came along the terrace, with hands full of holly and
a face full of merry mischief, adding as she vanished,
“I shall tell Tavie that feeding the peacocks
is such congenial amusement for lovers, she and Mr.
Annon had better try it.”
“Saucy gypsy!” muttered Treherne.
But Mrs. Snowdon said, with a smile of double meaning,
“Many a true word is spoken in jest.”
UNDER THE MISTLETOE
Unusually gay and charming the three young friends
looked, dressed alike in fleecy white with holly wreaths
in their hair, as they slowly descended the wide oaken
stairway arm in arm. A footman was lighting the
hall lamps, for the winter dusk gathered early, and
the girls were merrily chatting about the evening’s
festivity when suddenly a loud, long shriek echoed
through the hall. A heavy glass shade fell from
the man’s hand with a crash, and the young ladies
clung to one another aghast, for mortal terror was
in the cry, and a dead silence followed it.
