"You are too cynical, my dear boy. There was nothing false about it; Katharine was simply a child. He was very fond of her, I assure you. And died most happily."
"For all concerned."
Sylvia shook her head. But Mrs. Winthrop's step was now heard in the hall; she came in with several letters in her hand. "Any news?" said Miss Pitcher.
"No," replied the younger lady. "Nothing ever happens any more."
"As Ronsard sang,
| "'Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame! |
| Las! le temps non; mais nous nous en allons,'" |
said Ford, bringing forward her especial chair.
"That is true," she answered, soberly, almost sombrely.
That evening the moonlight on the lake was surpassingly lovely; there was not a ripple to break the sheen of the water, and the clear outline of Mont Blanc rose like silver against the dark black-blue of the sky. They all strolled down to the shore; Mrs. Winthrop went out with Ford in his skiff, "for ten minutes." Sylvia watched the little boat float up and down for twenty; then she returned to the house and read for forty more. When Sylvia was down-stairs she read the third canto of "Childe Harold"; in her own room she kept a private supply of the works of Miss Yonge. At ten Katharine entered. "Has John gone?" said the aunt, putting in her mark and closing the Byronic volume.
"Yes; he came to the door, but would not come in."