wondering what could make her so changeable. When the meal was over she went to the door and looked out, then immediately returned to her chamber, disconsolate and sad.
The sun shone in its splendor, but it shone not for her; the flowers bloomed in their beauty, but she heeded them not; the birds warbled their songs of thanksgiving, but they chanted the funeral dirge of her hopes of earthly happiness.
As Fate would have it, Ernest came this morning also, to invite her to ride. She went down without making any change in her appearance, and met his invitation with a cold, disdainful and prompt refusal.
She turned abruptly away to fondle a little white-footed Maltese kitten Walter brought home one evening, which had strayed away from home and was now amusing herself by catching at the fountain spray as she lay basking in the sunshine. Ernest watched her sadly, contrasting this picture with the other, but as good outlives evil he said to himself, "She will yet repent this and need all the sympathy I can give her," and walked away.
She did repent it before he reached the gate at the foot of the avenue, but it was too late. The cruel words had gone forth, words that were to go down the silent stream of time, never to be recalled or forgotten. Healing waters might flow over it, but the wound would forever leave it's scar, the memento of deep and bitter suffering.
Walter was sitting in the arbor reading, where he could hear and see all, unobserved by them. Inexpressibly pained as he was, he never uttered a word
