“Did you ever hear of him again, aunt?”

“Of him, never.  His elder brother died more than a year ago.  I suppose Alfred died many years since; he was very frail and delicate.  I thought it was refinement and beauty then; I know now it was ill health.”

“Poor aunt!”

“Nay, child; I was very happy while my dream lasted; and I never will believe but that Alfred in his love for me was quite sane, and perhaps more sincere than many wiser men.”

After this confidence Miss Phoebe seemed to take a great pleasure in speaking of the little romance of her youth.  Often the old and the young maidens sat in the twilight discussing the probabilities of poor Alfred Compton’s life and death, and every discussion left them more and more positive that he had been the victim of some cruel plot.  The subject never tired Miss Phoebe, and Julia, in the absence of a lover of her own, found in it a charm quite in keeping with her own youthful dreams.

One cold night in the middle of January they had talked over the old subject until both felt it to be exhausted—­at least for that night.  Julia drew aside the heavy satin curtains, and looking out said, “It is snowing heavily, aunt; to-morrow we can have a sleigh ride.  Why, there is a sleigh at our door!  Who can it be?  A gentleman, aunt, and he is coming here.”

“Close the curtains, child.  It is my lawyer, Mr. Howard.  He promised to call to-night.”

“Oh, dear!  I was hoping it was some nice strange person.”

Miss Phoebe did not answer; her thoughts were far away.  In fact, she had talked about her old lover until there had sprung up anew in her heart a very strong sentimental affection for his memory; and when the servant announced a visitor on business, she rose with a sigh from her reflections, and went into the reception-room.

In a few minutes Julia heard her voice, in rapid, excited tones, and ere she could decide whether to go to her or not, Aunt Phoebe entered the room, holding by the hand a gentleman whom she announced as Mr. Alfred Compton.  Julia was disappointed, to say the least, but she met him with enthusiasm.  Perhaps Aunt Phoebe had quite unconsciously magnified the beauty of the youthful Alfred:  certainly this one was not handsome.  He was sixty, at least, his fair curling locks had vanished, and his fine figure was slightly bent.  But the clear, sensitive face remained, and he was still dressed with scrupulous care.

The two women made much of him.  In half an hour Delmonico had furnished a delicious little banquet, and Alfred drank his first glass of wine with an old-fashioned grace “to his promised wife, Miss Phoebe Wakefield, best and loveliest of women.”

Miss Phoebe laughed, but she dearly liked it; and hand in hand the two old lovers sat, while Alfred told his sad little story of life-long wrong and suffering; of an intensely nervous, self-conscious nature, driven to extremity by cruel usage and many wrongs.  At the mention of Dr. Orman Miss Phoebe expressed herself a little bitterly.