Could better wake, or still?
Speak now—lest at some future day
My whole life wither and decay.
Adelaide Anne Procter.
Evelyn Selby stood at the window, one afternoon about three weeks after Mr. Huntingdon’s death, looking out on the snowy gardens of the square, where two rosy-faced lads were pelting each other with snow-balls.
She was watching them, seemingly absorbed in their merry play; but every now and then her eyes glanced wistfully toward the entrance of the square with the sober expectancy of one who has waited long, and is patient; but weary.
Erle had once owned to Fay, in a fit of enthusiasm, that Evelyn Selby was as good as she was beautiful; and it was true. Placed side by side with Fern Trafford, and deprived of all extraneous ornament of dress and fashion; most people would have owned that the young patrician bore the palm. Fern’s sweet face would have suffered eclipse beside her rival’s radiant bloom and graceful carriage; and yet a little of the bloom had been dimmed of late, and the brown eyes had lost their brightness.
As a well-known figure crossed the square, she turned from the window with a sigh of relief; “at last,” she murmured, as she sat down and made a pretense of busying herself with some fancy work; but it lay unheeded on her lap as Erle entered and sat down beside her.
“I am afraid I am very late this afternoon, Eva,” he said, taking her hand. “Mrs. Trafford wanted to speak to me, and so I went up to her room; we had so much business to settle. She has given me a great deal of trouble, poor woman; but I think I shall have my way at last.”
“You mean about the money?”