“Alice, it is getting late, and I beg leave to bid you good night. I will wait for Clara.”
“She said no one need wait for her,” replied Alice, “and you are tired to-night, I know. I beg you will not sit up.”
“It will be dreary for her, and I can very well sit up: I shall be writing to my mother—good night, love.”
Mrs. Gregory’s letter was finished, and the last “Graham” read before her solitude was disturbed. At length, as she stood looking out into the starlight, footsteps and mirthful voices broke the stillness. The loitering footsteps draw near, and halt at the door. The mirthful voices subside into the low, earnest hum of conversation. Then the light “Adieu!” and the two part.
A smile still lingered on Clara’s face as she entered and—without observing that the room was occupied—threw herself down beside the fire, whose warmth was no unwelcome thing in the chill April night, and slowly pulled off her gloves. Mrs. Gregory still stood at the window, half hidden by the folds of the curtain. She thought she had rarely seen a more beautiful face than was Clara’s at that moment. Joyous words seemed to tremble on her lips, and laughing fancies to peep out through the long lashes of her eyes, so roguishly! Then, when the little white hands untied the bonnet and took it off, dropping it on the carpet, and let the rich, clustering hair flow about the bright face,
“Ah, she is very charming!” thought her mother, while she said—
“You have passed a delightful evening, Clara.”
Clara started and looked up. The radiant smile instantly died away, and replying coldly—
“Very passable, I thank you,” she rose, and taking a light from the table, left the room.
Mrs. Gregory sighed deeply; and, leaning her forehead against the cold window-pane, stood lost in painful thought, till many stars were set, and the embers on the hearth grew white and cold.