t in the rooms newly fitted up for her was unbounded, and
against the background of their subdued, warm tints she made a
strikingly beautiful picture, with her sweet, spirituelle face crowned
with waving silver hair.

Either Darrell or his father, or both, were constantly with her, for
they realized that the time was short in which to make amends for the
missing years. She loved to listen to her husband's tales of the great
West or to bits which Darrell read from his journal of that strange
chapter of his own life.

"You have not yet asked after your sweetheart, Darrell," his mother said
one evening soon after his arrival, as they sat awaiting his father's
return from a short stroll.

"You are my sweetheart now, little mother," he replied, kissing the hand
that lay within his own.

"Does that mean that you care less for Marion than before you went
away?" she queried.

"No," Darrell answered, slowly; "I cannot say that my regard for her has
decreased. I may have changed in some respects, but not in my feelings
towards Marion. I will ask you a question, mother: Do you think she
still cares for me as before I left home?"

"I hardly know how to answer you, because, as you know, Marion is so
silent and secretive. I never could understand the girl. To be candid,
Darrell dear, I never could understand why you should care for her, and
I never thought she cared for you as she ought."

"You know, mother, how I came to be attracted to her in the first place;
we were schoolmates, and you know she was an exceptionally brilliant
girl, and different from most of the others. We were interested in the
same subjects, and naturally there sprang up quite an intimacy between
us. Then we corresponded while I was at college, and her letters were so
bright and entertaining that my admiration for her increased. I thought
her the most brilliant and the best girl, every way, in all my
acquaintance, and I think so still."

"But, my dear boy," his mother exclaimed, "admiration is not love; I
don't believe you ever really loved her, and she always seemed to me to
be all brains and no heart--one of those cold, silent natures incapable
of loving."

"I think you are wrong there, mother. Marion is silent, but I don't
believe she is cold or incapable of loving. She may, or may not, be
incapable of expressing it, but I believe she could love very deeply and
sincerely were her love once awakened."

"You know she has taken up the study of medic