she said, in a tremulous voice, turning
suddenly to the window and looking out upon the trees now half stripped
of their foliage by the autumn winds. We both stood staring out of the
window in silence. For my part, I could not have spoken if I had known
what to say. How she had changed! The blushing little miss who had
awakened the pangs of first love in my youthful heart was a beautiful
young woman, now full grown and arrayed in costly finery. Rayel was the
first to speak.

"You must be glad to meet again--you have loved each other so long,"
said he.

Honest Rayel! He knew our hearts--their longings, their histories, and
also the vanity and pride that dwelt in them. Why should there be any
concealment between her and me?

"It has been a long time--a very long time to me, Hester, for I have
loved you ever since we first met."

She turned toward me, her eyes filled with tears, and I drew her to my
heart and kissed her fondly.

"We have only known each other as children, Kendric," said she. "Your
heart may change and mine may change--let us wait and see."

Then she left us, promising to come again next day.

CHAPTER X

Hester and her maid looked in upon me every morning after that, until I
was able to leave the hospital. During these visits we told each other
the eventful story of our lives since the night of our parting at
her father's gate. Her first appearance on the stage had been, as I
suspected, literally represented in the play. For years she had been
permitted to accompany her father behind the scenes, and nights when
the cast was short she had played small parts with great success. The
glamour and excitement of stage life had proved distasteful to her. She
assured me that it was her intention never to go back to it, and this
strengthened my hope that she would some day consent to become my wife.
Rayel had told her, during my illness, the strange story of his life.
She knew nothing, however, of his wonderful powers, until I had related
to her some of the experiences which had revealed them to me. He had
said nothing to her, I learned, about our discovery of the picture.

"Who painted the remarkable portrait of you which we saw at the
theatre?" I asked her one day.

"It was painted, I believe, by a French nobleman, who presented it to me
here in New York. I suppose it looks a little as I did once, but it is
certainly too flattering and much too maidenly for me now.

"The Frenchman is an imposto