"It is not an age; it is a year."
"Oh, a great deal can happen in a year," said Miss Stowe, turning away.
She was as richly dressed as ever, and not quite so plainly. Her hair was arranged in little rippling waves low down upon her forehead, which made her look, if not what might be called more worldly, at least more fashionable, since previously she had worn it arranged with a simplicity which was neither. Owing to this new arrangement of her hair, her eyes looked larger and darker.
He continued to walk beside her for some moments, and then, as she came upon a party of friends, he took leave.
In the evening he called upon Miss Harrison, and remained an hour. Miss Stowe was not at home. The next day he sent to Miss Harrison a beautiful basket of flowers.
"He knows we always keep the rooms full of them," remarked Miss Stowe, rather disdainfully.
"All the same, I like the attention," said Miss Harrison. And she sent him an invitation to dinner. She liked to have one guest.
He came. During the evening he asked Miss Stowe to sing. "I have lost my voice," she answered.
"Yes," said Miss Harrison, "it is really remarkable; Margaret, although she seems so well, has not been able to sing for months—indeed, for a full year. It is quite sad."
"I am not sad about it, Aunt Ruth; I am relieved. I never sang well—I had not voice enough. There was really nothing in it but expression; and that was all pretence."