The entire faith with which these two women looked forward to the future roused no little curiosity on my part as to the realization of their hopes.  A year after our acquaintance began the ladies left R——­ to travel abroad.  Eleanor assured me solemnly that she should not return until she had won renown, that vision of so many young hearts on leaving home.  “The great trouble is to decide what to do;” and here she sighed.  “But Aunt Will says our work shapes itself without our knowing.  Some morning we wake and find it ready for our hands, with no more doubt on the subject.  I am waking.”

“Meanwhile enjoying yourself.”

“Why not?” she answered, smiling:  “it is what aunt wishes me to do.”

At first I had frequent letters from my friend, but the intervals between them became longer, as is usual when a new life replaces the old.  In those which I received there was no allusion to the career, and I felt that inquiries on the subject would be indiscreet.  If she were succeeding, I should hear of it soon enough; and if not, why should I give her pain?  After a separation of about eighteen months, and a silence of six, one morning, on being sent for to the parlor, what was my surprise to find myself face to face with Eleanor Vachy, and the girl, prettier than ever, pressing warm kisses on my cheeks!

We had been talking on every conceivable topic for perhaps an hour, as only friends can talk, when I chanced to remark, “You intended to make a much longer stay when you left:  I hope nothing disagreeable has happened to bring you home.”

“Nothing disagreeable,” she replied, looking slightly embarrassed.  “I would have written about it, but thought I would rather tell you.  I hope it won’t alter your opinion of me when you hear it:  I hope you won’t think less of me;” and the color mounted swiftly in her cheeks as she gave me one deprecating glance out of her purple eyes, and then as quickly hid them under their long lashes.

“I will try to be impartial,” I answered gravely, seeing that she was not in a humor to be laughed at.  “I suppose it is in reference to your career?”

“Yes it is,” she replied, looking attentively at the point of her boot; “and I fear aunt is disappointed, although she says nothing; and it is very possible that you will be disappointed also.”

“If you have chosen anything reasonable,” I remarked encouragingly, “I am sure your aunt will be satisfied:  she is so unprejudiced, and you know she always declared that she would not influence you.”

“She trusted me too much,” sighing.  “What I have preferred, you—­maybe she—­that is, many people—­would think no career at all.”

“Ah, indeed!  Poetry?” (I knew that Aunt Will had no great opinion of most of the versifiers.)

She interlocked her fingers and gave them a slight twist, looked still more intently at the toe of her boot, and dropped ruefully one little word, “No.”