Let us trust that he will find on earth a fitting mate, one who will give unto him the first sweet love of her girlhood and lavish on those bright features the purest and best of caresses. We bless you, Reginald, and offer for you this prayer, knowing as we do the purity of your heart, and so bid you a last farewell.
One cold, raw evening, Gwendoline, returning from a reception, entered her apartments through the sitting-room. She found it dark, and, hearing Alice in the bed-chamber, passed on, and, giving her wraps into her hands, returned to the sitting-room. She was shivering from the cold, and, going to the fire, stirred it to a blaze. The brightness illuminated floor and ceiling, chairs and table, falling on the black marble of the last-mentioned article of furniture, and upon the whiteness of a visiting card that lay like a snowflake before her, as she stood with her back to the chimney. Leaning over, she took it up, and turned it to the light behind her.
She was rolling it now softly, now fiercely, between her fingers, when her maid spoke to her, asking some questions about her wardrobe; then, finding herself unanswered, she went again to her work of folding and unfolding her mistress’ tumbled dresses. Presently, Gwendoline moved and, darting into the other room, said:
“When did this come?” and she held out the card, adding: “And did you see him?”
“It came some hours ago,” replied the girl; “and, yes, Miss, I did see him for a few moments.”
“And you never told me!”
“How could I? I have not seen you since,” and Alice went on hanging and putting away the dresses.
The mistress walked in a restless manner about the room, then, stopping in front of the girl, asked:
“What did he say? Did he leave no message with you? Speak! Why are you silent?” and she caught her by the wrist.
“I am silent, Miss Gwendoline, because I do not wish to tell you what he said, for—for—” and the girl’s voice grew low, “I do not think you ought to have his messages—and you ought not to see him again.”