He drew his arm around her and kissed her flushed cheek, and each looked at
the other, wondering at the changes which years had wrought.

"Electra, you have certainly improved more than anyone I ever knew. You
look the impersonation of perfect health; it is needless to ask how you
are." And again his lips touched the beaming face pressed against his
shoulder. Her arms stole tremblingly around his neck, past indifference
was forgotten in the joy of his presence.

"Sit down, and let me look at you. You have grown so tall and commanding
that I am half afraid of my own cousin. You are less like Aunt Amy than
formerly."

"Allow me to look at your painting first, for it will soon be too dark to
examine it. This is the Cassandra of which you wrote me."

He stood before it for some moments in silence, and she watched him with
breathless eagerness--for his opinion was of more value to her than that of
all the _dilettanti_ and _connoisseurs_ who would soon inspect it.
Gradually his dark cold face kindled, and she had her reward.

"It is a masterly creation; a thing of wonderful and imperishable beauty;
it is a great success--as such the world will receive it--and hundreds will
proclaim your triumph. I am proud of it, and doubly proud of you."

He held out his hand, and, as she put her fingers in his, her head drooped,
and hot tears blinded her. Praise from the lips she loved best stirred her
womanly heart as the applause of the public could never do.

"Come, sit down, Electra, and tell me something of your life, since the
death of your friend, Mr. Clifton."

"Did you receive my last letter, giving an account of Mrs. Clifton's
death?"

"Yes; just as I stepped upon the platform of the cars it was handed to me.
I had heard nothing from you for so long, that I thought it was time to
look after you."

"You had started, then, before you knew that I was going to Europe?"

"Yes."

He could not understand the instantaneous change which came over her
countenance--the illumination, followed as suddenly by a smile, half
compassionate, half bitter. She pressed one hand to her heart, and said--

"Mrs. Clifton never seemed to realize her son's death, though, after
paralysis took place, and she became speechless, I thought she recovered
her memory in some degree. She survived him just four months, and,
doubtless, was saved much grief by her unconsciousness of what had
occurred. Poor old lady! she suffered little for a year past