The room was very still and sunny; her lover remained silent and unstirring; and the girl's eyes
wandered from carpet to ceiling and from wall to wall, resting on familiar objects; then, passing dreamily, remained fixed on space—sweet, brooding eyes, dim with the deepest emotion she had ever known.
A new, profound, and thrilling peace possessed her—a heavenly sense of tranquillity and security, as though, somehow, all problems had been solved for her and for him.
Presently in a low, hushed, happy voice she began to speak about her mother. Little unimportant, unconnected incidents came to her mind—brief moments, episodes as ephemeral as they had been insignificant.
Sitting on the faded hassock at his feet she lifted her head and rested both arms across his knees.
"It is all so perfect now," she said,—"you here in mother's room, and I at your feet: and the sunny world waiting for us outside. How mellow is this light! Always in the demi-dusk of this house there seemed to me to linger a golden tint—even on dark days—even at night—as though somewhere a ray of sun had been lost and had not entirely faded out."
"It came from your own heart, Athalie—that wonderful and golden heart of yours where light and warmth can never die.... Dear, are you contented with what I have ventured to do?"
She looked silently into his eyes, then with a little sigh dropped her head on his knees again.
Far away somewhere in the depths of the house somebody was moving. And presently she asked him who it was.
"Connor, the man of all work. I sent him to Spring