he now? I wish I knew
her."

No one who had seen Elsie at that moment would have doubted that she had
had lovers. She was very pretty to-day; prettier at twenty-eight than
she had been in the days of girlhood. Some new feeling of peace was
creeping into her heart and hushing all its turmoil into a sweet rest.
Some new interest was beginning to stir in her life; much was quieted
within her, and much was wakening. She felt as if she had roused after
an uneasy sleep and tasted the first freshness of a fair morning.

She sat a little while in silence, thinking about the unknown writer and
her Harold. Although she had read only a few lines, she felt drawn
towards this woman whom she had never seen. It would have been good to
have had her for a friend.

Where was she now? Living somewhere with Harold, perhaps far away in the
country. Elsie could fancy the pair coming homeward through ferny lanes
in the first shade of the twilight. She pictured the woman, dark-eyed
and dark-haired, like herself, and the man tall and fair, with a grave
yet gentle face. They had a great deal to say to each other, as those
who are one in spirit often have. They answered each other's thoughts;
there was the fulness of a calm content in every tone.

And then she turned again to the manuscript.

CHAPTER II

_WHAT WAS WRITTEN_

"And Love lives on, and hath a power to bless,
When they who loved are hidden in the grave."
--LOWELL.

"Every one said that it was a hopeless thing to get engaged to a poor
curate," the writer went on, "and I was only a poor teacher, so the
folly was not all on one side. We were wonderfully happy in our folly,
so happy that we were full of pity for Mr. Worldly Wiseman when he
happened to cross our path with his contemptuous smile. Even Harold's
sister Ellen, with her cold blue eyes, had no power to chill us in those
days. Frigid as Ellen was, I liked her better than James, her husband,
who always pretended to be fond of me. He was a man of the 'good fellow'
type--burly, and loud of voice. But Jamie, dear little lad, bore no
resemblance to his father at all, and was only like his mother in her
best moods. Oh, poor little Jamie!

"I am not writing a novel; I am only telling of things that really came
to pass.

"We had been engaged nearly twelve months, when an old man died and left
Harold L2000. I do not expect any one to understand the gladness which
that money gave us. I