who knew that she had
lost a baby a few months previously, assumed that the effect of this
shock still lingered, though evidently mitigated by a reviving interest
in pretty clothes and the other ornamental accessories of life.
Certainly Bessy Amherst had grown into the full loveliness which her
childhood promised. She had the kind of finished prettiness that
declares itself early, holds its own through the awkward transitions of
girlhood, and resists the strain of all later vicissitudes, as though
miraculously preserved in some clear medium impenetrable to the wear and
tear of living.

"You absurd child! You've not changed a bit except to grow more so!"
Justine laughed, paying amused tribute to the childish craving for "a
compliment" that still betrayed itself in Bessy's eyes.

"Well, _you_ have, then, Justine--you've grown extraordinarily
handsome!"

"That _is_ extraordinary of me, certainly," the other acknowledged
gaily. "But then think what room for improvement there was--and how
much time I've had to improve in!"

"It is a long time, isn't it?" Bessy assented. "I feel so intimate,
still, with the old Justine of the convent, and I don't know the new one
a bit. Just think--I've a great girl of my own, almost as old as we were
when we went to the Sacred Heart: But perhaps you don't know anything
about me either. You see, I married again two years ago, and my poor
baby died last March...so I have only Cicely. It was such a
disappointment--I wanted a boy dreadfully, and I understand little
babies so much better than a big girl like Cicely.... Oh, dear, here is
Juliana Gaines bringing up some more tiresome people! It's such a bore,
but John says I must know them all. Well, thank goodness we've only one
more day in this dreadful place--and of course I shall see you, dear,
before we go...."

XI

AFTER conducting Miss Brent to his wife, John Amherst, by the exercise
of considerable strategic skill, had once more contrived to detach
himself from the throng on the lawn, and, regaining a path in the
shrubbery, had taken refuge on the verandah of the house.

Here, under the shade of the awning, two ladies were seated in a
seclusion agreeably tempered by the distant strains of the Hanaford
band, and by the shifting prospect of the groups below them.

"Ah, here he is now!" the younger of the two exclaimed, turning on
Amherst the smile of intelligence that Mrs. Eustace Ansell was in the
habit of substituting for