hing, that is, to her hearer; but then she was herself an
astonishing girl, an unusual girl. The end of it was that the unusual
girl clung more closely than ever to her friend, and that she soon
became calmer, passive if not happy. Winthrop, coming down to East
Angels on the second day, found her so, and took counsel with Margaret,
after she had returned home, over the change; he expressed the opinion
that very soon she would have forgotten all about it. In this he was
mistaken; the days passed, and Garda remained in the same passive
condition. She was gentle with every one; to Margaret and Winthrop she
was affectionate. But in spite of her bloom--for her color came back as
soon as the tears ceased--in spite of her rich youthfulness, she had the
appearance of a person who has stopped, who does not care, who has lost
interest and lets the world go by. This could not make her look older;
but it did give her a strange expression.

"A mourning child is worse than a mourning woman," said Winthrop to
Margaret, emphatically. "It's unnatural."

"Garda isn't a child," she answered.

"Since when have you come to that conclusion?"

She hesitated. "I think, perhaps, I have never fully understood her. I
don't know that I understand her even now."

"Oh, 'understand'--as if she were a sphinx, poor little girl! One thing
is certain," he added, rather contradictorily, "if she loses her
simplicity, she loses all her charm."

"Not all, I think."

"Yes, all to me."

"You cannot see what she finds to admire in Lucian Spenser; that is what
vexes you."

"I am not in the least vexed. She fancied her own fancy, her own
imagination; that was all."

"Garda has very little imagination."

"How you dislike her!" said Winthrop, looking straight into her eyes.

To his surprise he almost thought he saw them falter. "On the contrary,
I am much attached to her," she answered, letting her glance drop; "I
shall grow very fond of her, I see that. It was nothing against her to
say that she has little imagination. If she had had more, would she have
been so contented here? I think it has been very fortunate."

"Yes, she has certainly been contented," said Winthrop. "I like that."

"As to what you say about her losing her simplicity, I don't think she
has lost it in the least. Why, what could be a greater evidence of it
than the open way in which she has shown out to me, but more especially
to you, all she has felt about Mr. Spenser?"

"Yes,