They exchanged a
hearty shake of the hand, as if in congratulation.

"Ah," thought Kenelm, "the letter is from Lily. She is abroad. Perhaps
the birth of a first-born."

Just then Blanche, who had not been visible before, emerged from under
the table, and as Melville reseated himself by the fireside, sprang into
his lap, rubbing herself against his breast. The expression of his face
changed; he uttered some low exclamation. Mrs. Cameron took the creature
from his lap, stroking it quietly, carried it across the room, and put
it outside the door. Then she seated herself beside the artist, placing
her hand in his, and they conversed in low tones, till Melville's face
again grew bright, and again he took up the letter.

A few minutes later the maid-servant entered with the tea-things,
and after arranging them on the table approached the window. Kenelm
retreated into the shade, the servant closed the shutters and drew the
curtains; that scene of quiet home comfort vanished from the eyes of the
looker-on.

Kenelm felt strangely perplexed. What had become of Lily? was she indeed
absent from her home? Had he conjectured rightly that the letter
which had evidently so gladdened Melville was from her, or was
it possible--here a thought of joy seized his heart and held him
breathless--was it possible that, after all, she had not married her
guardian; had found a home elsewhere,--was free? He moved on farther
down the lawn, towards the water, that he might better bring before his
sight that part of the irregular building in which Lily formerly had her
sleeping-chamber, and her "own-own room."

All was dark there; the shutters inexorably closed. The place with which
the childlike girl had associated her most childlike fancies, taming and
tending the honey-drinkers destined to pass into fairies, that fragile
tenement was not closed against the winds and snows; its doors were
drearily open; gaps in the delicate wire-work; of its dainty draperies a
few tattered shreds hanging here and there; and on the depopulated floor
the moonbeams resting cold and ghostly. No spray from the tiny fountain;
its basin chipped and mouldering; the scanty waters therein frozen. Of
all the pretty wild ones that Lily fancied she could tame, not one. Ah!
yes, there was one, probably not of the old familiar number; a stranger
that might have crept in for shelter from the first blasts of
winter, and now clung to an angle in the farther wall, its wings
fold