like a young girl, the Baroness thought--and she
rested her clear, smiling eyes upon those of her visitor. Her voice
was low and monotonous, like a voice that had never expressed any human
passions.

"I have come to bid you good-by," said Eugenia. "I shall soon be going
away."

"When are you going away?"

"Very soon--any day."

"I am very sorry," said Mrs. Acton. "I hoped you would stay--always."

"Always?" Eugenia demanded.

"Well, I mean a long time," said Mrs. Acton, in her sweet, feeble tone.
"They tell me you are so comfortable--that you have got such a beautiful
little house."

Eugenia stared--that is, she smiled; she thought of her poor little
chalet and she wondered whether her hostess were jesting. "Yes, my house
is exquisite," she said; "though not to be compared to yours."

"And my son is so fond of going to see you," Mrs. Acton added. "I am
afraid my son will miss you."

"Ah, dear madame," said Eugenia, with a little laugh, "I can't stay in
America for your son!"

"Don't you like America?"

The Baroness looked at the front of her dress. "If I liked it--that
would not be staying for your son!"

Mrs. Acton gazed at her with her grave, tender eyes, as if she had not
quite understood. The Baroness at last found something irritating in
the sweet, soft stare of her hostess; and if one were not bound to be
merciful to great invalids she would almost have taken the liberty of
pronouncing her, mentally, a fool. "I am afraid, then, I shall never see
you again," said Mrs. Acton. "You know I am dying."

"Ah, dear madame," murmured Eugenia.

"I want to leave my children cheerful and happy. My daughter will
probably marry her cousin."

"Two such interesting young people," said the Baroness, vaguely. She was
not thinking of Clifford Wentworth.

"I feel so tranquil about my end," Mrs. Acton went on. "It is coming
so easily, so surely." And she paused, with her mild gaze always on
Eugenia's.

The Baroness hated to be reminded of death; but even in its imminence,
so far as Mrs. Acton was concerned, she preserved her good manners. "Ah,
madame, you are too charming an invalid," she rejoined.

But the delicacy of this rejoinder was apparently lost upon her hostess,
who went on in her low, reasonable voice. "I want to leave my children
bright and comfortable. You seem to me all so happy here--just as you
are. So I wish you could stay. It would be so pleasant for Robert."

Eugenia wondered what she meant