And as they talked in the splendid room, with its sweet odors and dim light, their voices grew lower, and they were content to whisper each other's names, and fall into sweet silences, thrilled with such soft stir, as angels in their cloud-girt wayfarings know, when they "feel the breath of kindred plumes." And thus,
"The tumult of the time disconsolate,
To inarticulate murmurs died away."
OTHER BOOKS BY MRS. BARR
Jan Vedder's Wife
The Bow of Orange Ribbon
Remember the Alamo
Friend Olivia
A Rose of a Hundred Leaves
The Lion's Whelp