longing. Involuntarily she glanced at Hilda, and
admired her beauty. Hilda caught her look and smiled in return.

"_Armes Kind_," she cried, tossing her a kiss from her finger-tips,
"you are so tired."

It was astonishing to Sydney that she felt no jealousy or envy of
Hilda. It seemed to her that it was not natural that she should feel so
kindly disposed towards the woman who had taken her lover from her. Yet
it was true. Although she could not help an occasional wince at some
look or word, yet she had no hard feeling. She did not attribute this
lack to any excellence of her own character. It seemed to her but
simple justice that a woman who had made so sad a mistake, and who had
expiated it so rudely, should have her reward; whereas, what had
_she_ done to deserve recompense? Did happiness come at any one's
whistle?

But how she wished it would.

Mrs. Carroll laid down her book and sighed in disgust.

"I do wish," she said, "that there was some one here old enough for me
to talk to."

"Try me," said John, as the oldest of the company addressed, while the
girls laughed.

"I grow so impatient with it," went on the old lady, pursuing aloud her
train of thought. "It seems as if the whole body of French fiction
writers was in a conspiracy against one's illusions. They are clever
enough to see the value of them, you would suppose, yet almost every
book you take up teaches that honor is a thing of the external life,
and not a part of the very essence of one's being."

"Do you call that an illusion?" asked Sydney.

"_I_ call it a truth, and belief in it an article of faith," said Mrs.
Carroll, stoutly, "but these people"--she tapped the book she had laid
down--"posit it as an illusion, and then demolish it by all sorts of
examples that could occur nowhere outside of Gaul!"

"Do you forget the books that are 'crowned'?" asked John.

"When a Frenchman attempts to be spiritual, it is an unfortunate fact
that he becomes insipid," asserted Mrs. Carroll, with a finality that
made them laugh again.

"You keep to this day your illusions!" said Hilda, softly admiring.

"I am most glad to say that I do. They are worn, but serviceable
still," replied Mrs. Carroll, smiling. "Even at my age, I still believe
that most husbands cherish their wives, and that most wives love their
husbands, and wear their names worthily."

"Checkmate."

"Oh, Mr. Vendell!"

Hilda was so adorably regretful, and her lack of mastery of her was