Mr. Chesley had returned with Mr. Palma to the United States, and late in the following autumn Mrs. Laurance and Regina sailed for New York.

The associations of the voyage were peculiarly painful to the unhappy wife, whose lips never unclosed upon the topic that engrossed her thoughts, and soon after their arrival her physician advised a trip to Florida or Cuba, until the rigour of the winter had ended, as an obstinate cough again aroused fears of consumption.

To accompany her mother, Regina postponed her marriage until June, and notwithstanding Mr. Palma’s avowed dissatisfaction and earnest protest, spent the winter and spring in the West Indies.  Mrs. Laurance gradually regained health, but not cheerfulness, and in May, when they returned to New York, preparations were made for the wedding, which in deference to her mother’s feelings, Regina desired should be very quiet.

Her husband’s estate had long been in Mrs. Laurance’s possession, and the stately mansion had been repaired and refurnished, awaiting its owner; but she shrank with a shiver from the mention of the place, announcing her intention to visit it no more, until she was laid to rest in the proud family tomb, whither the remains of General Rene Laurance had already been removed.

In accordance with her daughter’s wishes, she had taken for the summer a villa on the Hudson, only a short distance from the city, and a week before the day appointed for the marriage they took possession of their country home.

As the time rapidly approached, Mrs. Laurance’s depression of spirits seemed to increase; she jealously counted the hours that remained, and her sad eyes rested with fateful foreboding on her daughter’s happy countenance.

On the afternoon previous to the wedding, the mother sat on the verandah overlooking the velvet lawn that stretched between the house and the river.  The sun was setting, and the rich red glow rested upon the crest of distant hills, and smote the sails of two vessels gliding close to the opposite shore.

On the stone step sat Regina, her head leaning against her mother’s knee, her hand half buried in the snowy locks of Hero, who crouched at her side.

“Mrs. Palma and Uncle Orme will not arrive until noon; but Olga comes early to-morrow; and, mother, I know you will be glad to learn that at last her brother has persuaded her to abandon her intention of joining the——­”

She did not complete the sentence, for glancing up, she saw that Mrs. Laurance’s melancholy eyes were fixed on the crimson sky and purpling hills far away, and she knew that her thoughts were haunting grey, ashy crypts of the Bygone.

For some moments silence prevailed, and mother and child presented a singular contrast.  The former was clad in some violet-coloured fabric, and her wealth of golden hair was brushed smoothly back and twisted into a loose knot, where her daughter’s fingers had inserted a moss rose with clustering buds and glossy leaves.