e wondered if the silent, calm-faced, self-contained
woman beside him could be the laughing, joyous maiden whom he had seen
flitting among the trees and fountains at their first meeting little
more than three months past. He recalled how he had then thought her
unlike either her father or her aunt, and believed her to be wholly
without their self-restraint and self-repression. Now he saw that the
same stoical blood was in her veins. Already the sensitive, mobile face,
which had mirrored every emotion of the impulsive, sympathetic soul
within, bore something of the impassive calm of the rocks surrounding
them; it might have been chiselled in marble, so devoid was it at that
moment of any trace of feeling.

A faint sigh seemed to break the spell, and she turned facing him with
her old-time sunny smile.

"What a regal day!" she exclaimed.

"It is," he replied; "it was on such a day as this, about a year ago,
that I first met Mr. Britton. He called it, I remember, one of the
'coronation days' of the year. I have been reminded of the phrase and of
him all day."

"Dear Mr. Britton," said Kate, "I have not seen him for more than two
years. He has always been like a second father to me; he used to have me
call him 'papa' when I was little, and I've always loved him next to
papa. You and he correspond, do you not?"

"Yes; he writes rather irregularly, but his letters are precious to me.
He was the first to make me feel that this cramped fettered life of mine
held any good or anything worth living for. He made me ashamed of my
selfish sorrow, and every message from him, no matter how brief, seems
like an inspiration to something higher and nobler."

"He makes us all conscious of our selfishness," Kate answered, "for if
ever there was an unselfish life,--a life devoted to the alleviation of
the sufferings and sorrows of others,--it is his. I wish he were here
now," she added, with a sigh; "he has more influence with papa than all
the rest of us combined, though perhaps nothing even he might say would
be availing in this instance."

In all their friendly intercourse of the last few weeks there had been
one subject tacitly avoided by each, to which, although present in the
mind of each, no reference was ever made. From Kate's last words Darrell
knew that subject must now be met; he must know from her own lips the
worst. He turned sick with dread and remained silent.

A moment later Kate again faced him with a smile, but her