. Oh, it
is terrible to think we are thus. Good-bye, dear, I know you will
forgive me, and I hope you will write at once, and will not leave me in
suspense: that is the worst torture. With love to our friends Olive,
May, and Violet, believe me, darling Alice,
'Yours affectionately,
'CECILIA CULLEN.'

She read steadily, word by word, and then let the letter fall.

Her vision was not precise, but there were flashes of sun in it, and her
thoughts loomed and floated away. She thought of herself, of Harding, of
their first meeting. The first time she had seen him he was sitting in
the same place and in the same chair as she was sitting in now. She
remembered the first words that had been spoken: the scene was as clear
to her as if it were etched upon her brain; and as she mused she thought
of the importance of that event. Harding was to her what a mountain is
to the level plain. From him she now looked forward and back. 'So people
say that I am in love with him! well, supposing I were, I do not know
that I should feel ashamed of myself.'

The reflection was an agreeable one, and in it her thoughts floated away
like red-sailed barges into the white mists that veil with dreamy
enchantment the wharves and the walls of an ancient town. What did she
know of him? Nothing! He was to her as much, but no more, than the
author of a book in which she was deeply interested: with this
difference:--she could hear him reply to her questions; but his answers
were only like other books, and revealed nothing of his personality. She
would have liked to have known the individual man surrounded with his
individual hopes and sufferings, but of these she knew nothing. They had
talked of all things, but it seemed to her that of the real man she had
never had a glimpse. Never did he unbend, never did he lift the mask he
wore. He was interesting, but very unhuman, and he paraded his ideas and
his sneers as the lay figures did the mail-armour on the castle
stairway. She did not know if he were a good or a bad man; she fancied
he was not very good, and then she grew angry with herself for
suspecting him. But honest or dishonest, she was sure he could love no
one; and she strove to recall his face. She could remember nothing but
the cold merciless eyes--eyes that were like the palest blue porcelain:
'But how ungrateful I am,' thought the girl, and she checked the bitter