Then the thought came to her that he would not wish to see her again; she had no part nor lot in his life henceforth, by his own desire.
Musing sadly by the great, moaning sea, while little Ruby gathered the rosy-tinted shells along the sands, she murmured to herself those sweet, pathetic lines of Owen Meredith:
"Oh, being of beauty and bliss! Seen and known
In the depths of my heart, and possessed there alone,
My days know thee not, and my lips name thee never,
Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever;
We have met, we have parted,
No name is recorded
In my annals on earth."
[CHAPTER XXIV.]
In few more days Mrs. Markham received a letter from Mrs. Desmond. Her brother was so much better that she had quite recovered the tone of her spirits, and wrote, cheerfully:
"If nothing more happens, I shall be with you the first of September. Bertram will be with me, and I shall also bring a very charming young lady whom I have invited to spend the winter months with me in New York. She is the daughter of our host, and has been Bert's unwearied attendant throughout his illness. Between you and me, dear friend, she is so desperately in love with my brother, that she has neither eyes nor ears for anyone else. She has a younger sister whom I have not invited. I do not like her. She is the most abominable flirt I ever saw, and has done nothing but make eyes at Mr. Desmond since we came to Glenalvan Hall."
"Glenalvan Hall," mused Mrs. Markham, holding the letter in her hand, and drawing her eyebrows thoughtfully together. "How familiar the word sounds! Where have I heard it?"
She puzzled over it awhile, then gave it up. In the gay whirl of fashionable society, she had forgotten the pretty name of the poor girl she had befriended.
But she carried her letter into Ruby's room and read it aloud to her, and Golden's cheeks that had grown very pale and delicate of late, grew paler still.