utterly alone in the world. Strange how vividly her youth seemed to rise before her! she sat again beside her uncle, while Waller Maynard read aloud his boyish translation of the Prometheus bound; her uncle's words rang in her ear.
"So does destiny bind us on the rock of life, so does the vulture, Sorrow, prey on the core of every human heart!" Then she joined the little group that had gathered beside the fountain—so gay, so hopeful; what had they not, all of them, suffered since! She had witnessed the silent wasting of the heart which had banished the rose and the smile from the sweet face of Ethel Churchill; she knew that Norbourne Courtenaye was suffering all the bitterness of unavailing regret; and had she not just looked on Walter Maynard—pale, emaciated—with death in his face!
Slowly her thoughts reverted to herself; the blood rushed to her brow. What would she be to-morrow? the mark for obloquy and ridicule! disgraced, and for what? to minister to the wretched vanity of one whom she loathed even
