be going to a funeral for all the pleasure
you seem to anticipate. If you come to a ball with such a grandly
serious air, the men will just as soon think of asking a statue to dance
as you. A statue may be beautiful in its niche, but people do not care
to study its meaning at a ball."

"What do you wish me to do, Mamma? I should hate the distinction of a
wall-flower, which you think imminent. I am afraid I am too big a woman
to be frolicsome."

"You never were that, but you were at least a girl. People will begin
to think you consider yourself above them, or else that you have some
secret trouble."

The smile of incredulity with which she answered her would have been
heart-breaking had it been understood. No flush stained the ivory pallor
of her face at these thrusts in the dark; Louis was never annoyed
in this way now. Her old-time excited contradictions never obtruded
themselves in their conversations. A silent knowledge lay between them
which neither, by word or look, ever alluded to. Mrs. Levice noted with
delight their changed relations. Louis's sarcasm ceased to be directed
at Ruth; and though the familiar sparring was missing, Mrs. Levice
preferred his deferential bearing when he addressed her, and Ruth's
grave graciousness with him. She drew her own conclusions, and accepted
Ruth's quietness with more patience on this account.

Louis understood somewhat; and in his manliness he could not hide that
her suffering had cost him a new code of actions. But he could not
understand as her father did. Despite her brave smile, Levice could
almost read her heart-beats, and the knowledge brought a hardness and a
bitter regret. He grew to scanning her face surreptitiously, looking
in vain for the old, untroubled delight in things; and when the
unmistakable signs of secret anguish would leave traces at times, he
would turn away with a groan. Yet there was nothing to be done. He knew
that her love had been no light thing nor could her giving up be so;
but feeling that no matter what the present cost, the result would
compensate, he trusted to time to heal the wound. Meanwhile his own
self-blame at these times left its mark upon him.

For Ruth lived a dual life. The real one was passed in her quiet
chamber, in her long solitary walks, and when she sat with her book,
apparently reading. She would look up with blank, despairing eyes,
clinched hands, and hard-set teeth when the thought of him and all her
loss would steal upo