iting. She had been a beauty then; every one danced to the tune
she piped, and this curate--a mere fledgeling--had danced also. That was
nothing. No, it was nothing that he had, for a time, followed lovesick
in her train--she never doubted that he had had that sickness, although
he had not spoken of it--all that had been notable in the acquaintance
was that she, who at that time had played with the higher aims and
impulses of life, had thought, in her youthful arrogance, that she
discerned in this man something higher and finer than she saw in other
men. She had been pleased to make something of a friend of him,
condescending to advise and encourage him, pronouncing upon his desire
to seek a wider field in a new country, and calling it good. Later, when
he was gone, and life for her had grown more quiet for lack of
circumstances to feed excitement, she had wondered sometimes if this man
had recovered as perfectly from that love-sickness as others had done.
That was all--absolutely all. Her life had lately come again into
indirect relations with him through circumstances over which neither he
nor she had had any control; and now, when she was about to see him, he
had taken upon him to write and pick up the thread of personal
friendship again and remind her of the past.

In what mood had he written this reminder? Sophia Rexford would surely
not have been a woman of the world if she had not asked herself this
question. Did he think that on seeing her again he would care for her as
before? Did he imagine that intervening years, which had brought
misfortune to her family, would bring her more within his grasp? Or was
his intention in writing still less pleasing to her than this? Had he
written, speaking so guardedly of past friendship, with the desire to
ward off any hope she might cherish that he had remained unmarried for
her sake? Sophia's lips did not curl in scorn over this last suggestion,
because she was holding her little court of inquiry in a mental region
quite apart from her emotions.

This woman's character was, however, revealed in this, that she passed
easily from her queries as to what the man in question did, or would be
likely to, think of her. A matter of real, possibly of paramount,
interest to her was to wonder whether his life had really expanded into
the flower of which she had thought the bud gave promise. She tried to
look back and estimate the truth of her youthful instinct, which had
told her he wa