tood the bed,
neatly draped and curtained. What furniture the room contained matched
its surroundings. There was an utter absence of any commonplace element
about it.

But it was not all this that distinguished it so singularly. It was the
figure of a little old woman seated near the latticed panes in an
arm-chair. The evening light, still strong in the west, fell upon her.
As we entered she did not move, but turned her sightless eyes towards
us, with the intent, listening look that is so pathetic. She was very
small, and looked almost like a fairy-queen. Her hair was white as snow,
but still abundant and faultlessly arranged. The face was small and
refined, and possessed all the beauty of age, just as in years gone by
it must have possessed in a very marked manner all the beauty of youth.
It had the placid look the blind so often wear, was delicately flushed,
and without line or wrinkle. This was very strange in one who must have
had, to some extent at least, a hard and laborious life, with many
anxieties. Her dress was neatness itself; an old dark silk probably
given to her by a rich visitor whose turn it had served; and it was worn
with the air that seemed to betoken one who had been a lady. But her
whole appearance and bearing was gentle. It was a perfect and faultless
picture, charming to look upon.

We turned to the old man in wonder. His eyes were fixed upon his wife
with an intensity of admiration and reverence almost startling. It was
evident that the love of youth had survived every trial, all life's
rough lessons. So far he could have nothing to regret. The folly of
which he had been guilty--and it was an undoubted folly and mistake--had
been condoned and excused by the after life.

"We no longer marvel that you deserted the ranks of the army for those
of a sweeter service," we said, looking from one to the other and
feeling that we gazed upon a wonderful idyll.

"Was she not worth it--even all I renounced!" he cried. "Nerissa, I have
told these gentlemen all my boyish folly and indiscretion--all you made
me give up for your bewitching eyes."

Almost a youthful flush passed over the old lady's face as she smiled
rather sadly in response.

"It was indeed much to renounce for me," she said, in a very sweet
voice. "I was not worth it; no woman could be worth it. I ought never
have permitted it, and the thought has been one of the lasting sorrows
of my life. But we act first and think after. Though after a