rosity to endure his pain in silence. She had absolute
power over him, and she had begun to abuse that power already. Was she
not a woman?

Montcontour is an old manor-house build upon the sandy cliffs above the
Loire, not far from the bridge where Julie's journey was interrupted in
1814. It is a picturesque, white chateau, with turrets covered with
fine stone carving like Mechlin lace; a chateau such as you often see
in Touraine, spick and span, ivy clad, standing among its groves
of mulberry trees and vineyards, with its hollow walks, its stone
balustrades, and cellars mined in the rock escarpments mirrored in the
Loire. The roofs of Montcontour gleam in the sun; the whole land glows
in the burning heat. Traces of the romantic charm of Spain and the south
hover about the enchanting spot. The breeze brings the scent of bell
flowers and golden broom, the air is soft, all about you lies a sunny
land, a land which casts its dreamy spell over your soul, a land of
languor and of soft desire, a fair, sweet-scented country, where pain is
lulled to sleep and passion wakes. No heart is cold for long beneath its
clear sky, beside its sparkling waters. One ambition dies after another,
and you sink into serene content and repose, as the sun sinks at the end
of the day swathed about with purple and azure.

One warm August evening in 1821 two people were climbing the paths cut
in the crags above the chateau, doubtless for the sake of the view from
the heights above. The two were Julie and Lord Grenville, but this Julie
seemed to be a new creature. The unmistakable color of health glowed in
her face. Overflowing vitality had brought a light into her eyes, which
sparkled through a moist film with that liquid brightness which gives
such irresistible charm to the eyes of children. She was radiant with
smiles; she felt the joy of living and all the possibilities of life.
From the very way in which she lifted her little feet, it was easy to
see that no suffering trammeled her lightest movements; there was no
heaviness nor languor in her eyes, her voice, as heretofore. Under the
white silk sunshade which screened her from the hot sunlight, she looked
like some young bride beneath her veil, or a maiden waiting to yield to
the magical enchantments of Love.

Arthur led her with a lover's care, helping her up the pathway as if she
had been a child, finding the smoothest ways, avoiding the stones for
her, bidding her see glimpses of dista