“I little thought that you knew our dear Ralph,” said Mr. Bernard, breaking the silence they had enjoyed, “and yet I ought to have recognized his life within yours, Miss Wyman.”
Dawn knew well why he did not, for she had kept him away from herself.
“I usually feel the sphere of the one dearest to another, when I come into their presence; but this time I was completely in the dark. There is some reason for it, I know.” She knew it, and also that he could read her mind.
“I will keep nothing back,” she thought, and told him all. Just as she had finished, Mrs. Austin and his sister came in from the garden.
“Your conditions must have blended very closely,” said Beatrice, playfully, “it seems as though there was but one person in the room.”
“You are becoming a dangerous person to have about,” said her brother, while his tone and speech were greatly at variance, for his voice to her was always sweetly modulated and full of tenderness.
Mr. Bernard brought to Dawn a folio of drawings, some of Ralph's early sketches, which they looked over together until the hour of retiring, when the evening closed with a calm and natural prayer, such as was nightly heard in that pleasant home.
“I shall claim Miss Wyman to-morrow,” said Beatrice; “I have a great many subjects which I wish to talk upon with her; so, brother, you will see that our friend, Mrs. Austin, is entertained.”
“We will engage to make you very sorry that you are not of our party,” he answered, as they separated for the night.
“Now you are mine for a few hours,” said Miss Bernard, after breakfast, to her guest, as she led the way, followed by Dawn, to a little room which she had fitted up, and in which she studied or mused, sewed or wrote, as the mood prompted. The walls were hung with pictures, her own work, some in oil, others in crayon; all landscapes of the most poetic conception and delicate finish.