Front matter (continued 6)

The last words seemed to touch him suddenly. His whole face—a face which showed every passing emotion—changed and softened. "Believe me," he said, "I appreciate your frankness, and I see no humiliation in your confession. It is good of you, however, to suffer the pain of making it in order to save me from what you think would be a mistake."

"I know that it would be a mistake—a mistake in every way," she said, earnestly. "And I have made so many mistakes already that I cannot add another to the list. Believe me, if you succeeded in persuading me to marry you, it would be a mistake which we would both regret to the end of our lives. For we do not suit each other at all. When you marry you ought to select a woman different altogether from what I am: a woman gentler, yet with more moral strength."

"That may be," he answered, in a meditative tone; "but, then, no other woman can be the one to whom my father has left his fortune, who has generously given it back to me, and with whom I should like to share it."

"That is a feeling which I can understand, and which does you credit," she said. "But do you not see that I could hardly accept your suit on such a ground as that? It would have been better to have kept your fortune than to do that. No, Mr. Singleton: I beg you to think no more of this; I beg you not to follow me with any such thought in your mind. Promise me that you will not."

She leaned toward him in her earnestness, and held out her hand with a gesture of entreaty. George Singleton had something chivalrous in his nature, under all his brusque exterior; and taking the little hand he raised it to his lips.

"The confidence that you have placed in me," he said, "makes it impossible that I can do anything to annoy you. Your request is a command. I shall not follow you."

Her eyes thanked him. "Now I can go in peace, because I shall not have to think that I am misleading any one. However hard or lonely my path in life may be, I want henceforth to keep my conscience clear. I have tasted the bitterness of self-reproach, and I know what it is. Yes, you will stay. You have duties here now, and—and I hope it will not be long before you will find happiness."

He had no opportunity to reply, if he had been inclined to do so. Helen, remembering Marion's urgent request that the minutes allowed for her "few words" might be short, was heard approaching. Her clear, sweet voice gave some orders in the hall, and then she entered the room.

"I grieve to say, Marion, that it is almost time for you to go," she announced. "Ah, how sad parting is!"

Half an hour later, when Marion was borne away from Scarborough, her last backward glance showed her Helen and Singleton standing side by side on the station platform, waving her an adieu; and if she smiled at the sight, it cannot be denied that she also sighed. With her own hand she had closed the door of a possibly brilliant destiny; and, naturally enough, it had never looked so bright as when she said to herself, "That is over finally and forever."

CHAPTER XXX.

It was with little pause for sight-seeing on the way that Marion made her journey to Rome. A few days in Paris constituted her only delay; then, flying swiftly down through Italy—reserving until later the pleasure of seeing the beautiful historic cities which she passed—she did not stop again until she found herself within the walls of Rome.

And not even the fact of entering by means of a prosaic railway could lessen the thrill with which she realized that she was indeed within the city of the Cæsars and the Popes—the city that since the beginning of historic time has been the chief center of the earth, the mistress of the world, and the seat of the apostolic throne. It was strange to feel herself in this place of memories, yet to step into a modern railway station, resounding with noise and bustle; but even Rome was forgotten when she found herself in Claire's arms, and Claire's sweet voice bade her welcome.

What followed seemed like a dream—the swift drive through populous streets, with glimpses of stately buildings and narrow, picturesque ways; the passing under a great, sounding arch into a court, where the soft splash of a fountain was heard as soon as the carriage stopped; the ascent of an apparently interminable flight of stone steps, and pausing at length on a landing, where an open door gave access to an ante-chamber, and thence through parting curtains to a long salon, where a pretty, elderly lady rose to give Marion greeting. This was Claire's kind friend and chaperon, Mrs. Kerr, who said to herself, as she took the young stranger's hand, "What a beautiful creature!"

Marion, on her part, was charmed, not only with Mrs. Kerr, but with all her surroundings. The foreign aspect of everything enchanted her; the Italian servants, the Italian dishes of the collation spread for her, the soft sound of the language,—all entered into and made part of her pleasure. "O Claire!" she said, when presently she was taken to the pretty chamber prepared for her. "I think I am going to be so happy with you—if only you are not disgusted with me, when you hear the story I have to tell you!"

Claire laughed, as she bent and kissed her. "I have not the least fear that I shall be disgusted with you," she said. "You might do wrong things, Marion—things one would blame or censure,—but I am sure that you will never do a mean thing, and it is mean things which disgust one."

"Ah!" said Marion, with a sigh, "do not be too sure. I am not going to possess your good opinion on false pretenses, so you shall hear to-morrow all that has happened since we parted. Prepare your charity, for I shall need it."

And, indeed, on the next day Claire heard with the utmost fullness all that had occurred since the two parted at their convent school. As far as the Rathborne incident was concerned, Marion did not spare herself; and, although Claire looked grave over her self-accusation, she was unable to express any regret that, even at the cost of Helen's suffering, the engagement of the latter to Rathborne should have been ended. "I saw the man only once," she said, "but that was enough to make me distrust him thoroughly. He has a bad face—a face which shows a narrow and cruel nature. I always trembled at the thought of Helen's uniting her life to his. There seemed no possible prospect of happiness for her in such a choice. So I am glad that at almost any cost the engagement—entanglement, or whatever it was—has been ended. And I can not see that your share in it was so very heinous."

"That is because I have not made it clear to you, then," answered Marion. "I, too, always distrusted the man, but I liked his admiration, his homage; it was my first taste of the power for which, you know, I always longed. Indeed, Claire, there are no excuses to be made for me; and if the matter ended well for Helen—as I really believe it did,—I am still to blame for all her suffering; and you do not think that evil is less evil because good comes of it?"

"I certainly do not think that," said Claire. "But you had no evil intention, I am sure: you never meant to hurt Helen."

"No, I did not mean to do so, but I was careless whether she suffered or not. I thought only of myself—my own vanity, my own amusement. Nothing can change that, and so I have always felt that it was right I should suffer just as I made her suffer. Retribution came very quickly, Claire."

"Did it?" asked Claire. Her soft, gray eyes were full of unspoken sympathy. "Well, suffering is a great thing, dear; it enables us to expiate so much! Tell me about yours—if you like."

"I feel as if I had come here just to tell you," said Marion. And then followed the story of her engagement to Brian Earle, her anger because he would not comply with his uncle's wishes, their parting, her unexpected inheritance of Mr. Singleton's fortune, Rathborne's revenge in finding the lost heir, her surrender of the fortune to him, and her rejection of his suit.

"So here I am," she observed in conclusion, with a faint smile, "like one who has passed through terrible storms: who has been shipwrecked and has barely escaped with life—that is, with a fragment of self-respect. I am so glad I had strength to give up that fortune, Claire! You know how I always desired wealth."

"I know so well," said Claire, "that I am proud of you—proud that you had the courage to do what must have cost you so much. But I always told you that I knew you better than you knew yourself; and I was sure that you would never do anything unworthy, not even to gain the end you had so much at heart. But, Marion"—her face grew grave,—"I have something to tell you that I fear may prove unpleasant to you. Brian Earle is here."

"Brian Earle here!" repeated Marion. She became very pale, and for a moment was silent. Then she said, proudly, "I hope no one will imagine that I suspected this. I thought he was in Germany. But it will not be necessary for me to meet him."

"That must be for you to decide," said Claire, in a somewhat troubled tone. "He comes to see us occasionally—he is an old friend of Mrs. Kerr's—but, if you desire it, I will ask her to let him know that it will be best for him to discontinue his visits."

"No," said Marion, with quick, instinctive recoil; "for that would be to acknowledge that I shrink from seeing him. If I do shrink, he shall not be made aware of it. Perhaps, when he knows that I am here, he will desire to keep away. If not, I am—I will be strong enough to meet him with indifference."

Claire looked at her steadily, wistfully; it seemed as if she were trying to know all that might be known. "If you do not feel indifference," she said, gently, after a moment, "is it well to simulate it?"

"How can you ask such a question?" demanded Marion, with a touch of her old haughtiness. "It is not only well—it is essential to my self-respect. But I do not acknowledge that it will be simulation. Why should I be other than indifferent to Brian Earle? As I confessed to you a few minutes ago, I suffered when we parted, but that is over now."

"You care for him no longer, then?"

"Is it possible I could care for a man who has treated me as he has done? For I still believe that it was his duty to have remained with his uncle, and if—if he had cared for me at all he would have done so."

"But perhaps," said Claire, "he perceived that passionate desire of yours for wealth, and thought that it would not be well for you to have it gratified. I can imagine that."

"You imagine, then, exactly what he was good enough to say," replied Marion, dryly. "But I suppose you know enough of me to be also able to imagine that I was not very grateful for such a form of regard. He talked like a moralist, but he certainly did not feel like a lover, and so I let him go. I am not sorry for that."

"Then," said Claire, after a short pause of reflection, "I cannot see any reason why you should avoid meeting him. There may be a little awkwardness at first; but, if you have really no feeling for him, that will pass away."

"I should prefer to avoid such a meeting, if possible," answered Marion; "but if not possible, I will endure. Only, if you can, give me warning when it is likely to occur."

"That, unfortunately, is what I can hardly do," said Claire, in a tone of regret. "Our friends have established a habit of dropping in, without formality, almost any evening; and so we never know who is coming, or when."

"In that case there is, of course, nothing to be done. I can only promise that, whenever the occasion occurs, I will try to be equal to it."

"I have no doubt of that," answered Claire.

But she looked concerned as she went away, and it was evident to Mrs. Kerr that she was more than usually thoughtful that evening. As she had said, their friends in Rome found it pleasant to drop informally into their pretty salon. Artists predominated among these friends; so it was not strange that she watched the door, thinking that Brian Earle might come, and conscious of a wish that he would; for Marion, pleading fatigue, declined to appear on this first evening after her arrival; and Claire said to herself that if Earle did come, it would give her an opportunity to tell him what meeting lay before him, and he could then avoid it if he chose to do so. When, as the evening passed on, it became at length clear that he was not coming—and there was no reason beside her own desire for expecting him,—Claire thought, with a sigh, that events must take their course, since it was plainly out of her power to direct them.

CHAPTER XXXI.

And events did take their course, when, a few evenings later, Marion suddenly saw Earle entering the salon, where three or four visitors were already assembled. She herself was at the farther end of the room, and somewhat concealed by a large Oriental screen, near which she was seated. She was very glad of this friendly shelter when she felt her heart leap in a manner which fairly terrified her, as, glancing up, she saw Earle's face in the doorway. Her own emotion surprised her far more than his appearance; she shrank farther back into the shadow to conceal what she feared might be perceptible to others, and yet she could not refrain from following him with her eyes.

What she saw was this—that, even while greeting Mrs. Kerr, his glance wandered to Claire; that his first eager step was taken in her direction; and that his face, when he took her hand, was so eloquent of pleasure and tender admiration that it made Marion recall some words he had spoken when they first knew each other in Scarborough. "She charmed me," he had said then of Claire; "she is so simple, so candid, so intent upon high aims." Every word came back with sudden distinctness, with sudden, piercing meaning and weight, in the light of the look on Earle's face.

"He is in love with Claire!" said Marion to herself. "Nothing could be more natural, nothing more suitable. There is no struggle here between his heart and his judgment, as was the case with me. She seems to be made for him in every respect. Why did I not think of it sooner, and why did not Claire tell me that he had transferred his affection to her? Did she want me to see for myself, or did she think that I should not see? But there is no reason why I should care—none whatever."

Even while she repeated this assurance to herself, however, the sinking of her heart, the trembling of her hands, belied it, and frightened her by the evidence of a feeling she had not suspected. Surely, among the mysteries of our being, there is none greater than the existence and growth of feelings which we not only do not encourage, but of which we are often in absolute ignorance until some flash of illumination comes to reveal to us their strength.

Such a flash came now to Marion. She had assured herself that she had put Brian Earle out of her heart, and instead she suddenly found that, during the interval in which she had condemned it to darkness and silence, her feeling for him had increased rather than lessened. And she was now face to face with the proof that he had forgotten her—that he had found in Claire the true ideal of his fancy! She felt that it was natural, she acknowledged that it was just, but the shock was overpowering.

Fortunately, she happened at that moment to be alone—a gentleman who had been talking to her having crossed the room to ask Mrs. Kerr a question. Seeing him about to retrace his steps, a sudden instinct of flight—of flight at any cost of personal dignity—seized Marion. She felt that in another instant Claire would point her out to Earle, that he would be forced to come and address her. Could she bear that?—was she able to meet him as indifferently as she desired to do? Her beating pulses told her no; and, without giving herself time to think, she rose, lifted a portière near her, and passed swiftly and silently from the room.

Claire, meanwhile, glanced up at Earle; and she, too, met that look of tender admiration which Marion perceived. It was not the first time she had met it, but it was the first time that a consciousness of its possible meaning flashed upon her. She did not color at the thought, but grew instead suddenly pale, and glanced toward the corner of the room where Marion at that instant had made her escape; but Claire did not perceive this, and, with the sense of her presence, said to Earle:—

"You have probably not heard that my friend Marion Lynde is here?"

He started. "Miss Lynde here—in Rome!" he asked. "No, I had not heard it. Why has she come?"

"To see and to be with me," answered Claire, calmly. "You know, perhaps, that we are great friends."

"I have heard Miss Lynde speak of you," he said, regaining self-possession; "and if the friendship struck me as rather a strange one, knowing little of you as I did then, you may be sure that it strikes me now as more than strange. I have never met two people in my life who seemed to me to have less in common."

"Pardon me!" returned Claire. "You think so because you do not know either of us very well. We have really a great deal in common, and I doubt if any one in the world knows Marion as well as I do."

He looked at her with a sudden keen glance from under brows somewhat bent. "Are you not aware that I had at one time reason to fancy that I knew Miss Lynde quite well?" he asked.

"Yes," said Claire, with frankness; "I know. She has told me of that. But in such a relation as the one which existed between you for a time, people sometimes learn very little of each other. And I think that perhaps you did not learn very much of her."

"I learned quite enough," he replied,—"all that was necessary to convince me that I had made a great mistake. And there can be no doubt that Miss Lynde reached the same conclusion. That, I believe, is all that there is to say of the matter." He paused a moment, then added, "If she is here, I hope it will not be unpleasant to her to meet me; since I should be sorry to be banished from this salon, which Mrs. Kerr and yourself make so attractive."

"There is no reason for banishment, unless you desire it," said Claire. "Marion does not object to meeting you. But I think that there are one or two things that you ought to know before you meet her. Are you aware, in the first place, that she has given up your uncle's fortune?"

"No," he answered, very much startled. "Why has she done so?"

"Because Mr. Singleton's son appeared, and she thought that he should in justice possess his father's fortune. Do you not think she was right?"

"Right?—I suppose so. But this is very astonishing news. You are positively certain that George Singleton, my uncle's son, is alive?"

"I am certain that Marion has told me so, and I do not suppose she is mistaken, since she has resigned a fortune to him. People are usually sure before they take such a step as that."

"Yes," he assented, "but it seems almost incredible. For years George Singleton has been thought to be dead, and I was under the impression that my uncle had positive reason for believing him so. This being the case, there was no reason why he should not leave his fortune as he liked, and I was glad when I heard that he had left it to Miss Lynde; for the possession of wealth seemed to be the first desire of her heart."

"Poor Marion!" said Claire, gently. "You might be more tolerant of that desire if you knew all that she has suffered—suffered in a way peculiarly hard to her—from poverty. And she has surely proved in the most conclusive manner that, however much she desired wealth, she was not prepared to keep it at any cost to her conscience or her self-respect."

"Did she, then, resign all the fortune?"

"Very nearly all. She said that she reluctantly retained only a few thousand dollars."

"But is it possible that George Singleton did not insist upon providing for her fitly? Whatever his other faults, he was not mercenary—formerly."

"Mr. Singleton must have tried every possible argument to induce her to keep half the fortune, but she refused to do so. I think she felt keenly some reflections that had been thrown on her by Mr. Singleton's relatives, and wished to disprove them."

Earle was silent for a minute. He seemed trying to adjust his mind to these new views of Marion's character. "And you tell me that she is here—with you?"

"I was about to say that she is in the room," Claire answered; "but I do not see her just now. She was here a few minutes ago."

"Probably my appearance sent her away. Perhaps she would rather not meet me."

"She assured me that she did not object to meeting you; and, unless you give up our acquaintance, I do not see how such a meeting can be avoided; for she has come to stay in Rome some time."

"Well," said Earle, with an air of determination, "I certainly have no intention of giving up your acquaintance. Be sure of that. And it would go hard with me to cease visiting here in the pleasant, familiar fashion Mrs. Kerr and yourself have allowed me to fall into. So if Miss Lynde does not object to meeting me, there assuredly is not the least reason why I should object to meeting her."

Claire would have liked to ask, in her sincere, straightforward fashion, if all his feeling for Marion was at an end; and she might have done so but for the recollection of the look which had startled her. She did not acknowledge to herself in so many words what that look might mean; but it made her instinctively avoid any dangerous question, and she was not sorry when at this point their tête-à-tête was interrupted.

But Marion did not reappear; and when Claire at length went to seek her, she found that she had retired. Her room was in partial darkness, so that her face could not be seen, but her voice sounded altogether as usual when she accounted for her disappearance.

"I found that I was more tired than I had imagined by our day of sight-seeing," she said. "I grew so stupid that flight was the only resource. Pray make my excuses to Mr. Gardner. I vanished while he went across the room, and I suppose he was astonished to find an empty chair when he returned."

"Do you know that Mr. Earle entered just at the time you left?" asked Claire, who had her suspicions about this sudden flight.

"Did he?" said Marion, in a tone of indifference. "Fortunately, it is not necessary to make my excuses to him. There is no more reason why he should wish to see me than why I should wish to see him. Another time will answer as well to exchange some common-places of greeting. Good-night, dear! Don't let me detain you longer from your friends."

"I am so sorry you are tired! Hereafter we must be more moderate in sight-seeing," observed Claire.

As she went out of the room she said to herself that she must wait before she could decide anything with regard to the feelings of these two people. Was their alienation real and complete? One seemed as cold and indifferent as the other. But did this coldness only mask the old affection, or was it genuine? Claire had some instincts which seldom misled her, and one of these instincts made her fear that the indifference was more genuine with Earle than with Marion. "That would be terrible," she said to herself: "if he has forgotten and she has not. If it were only possible that they would tell the simple truth! But that, I suppose, cannot be expected. If I knew it, I would know how to act; but as it is I can only wait and observe. I believe, however, that Marion left the room because he appeared; and if his presence has such an effect on her, she certainly cares for him yet."

Marion was already writhing under the thought that this very conclusion would be drawn—perhaps by Earle himself,—and determining that she would never again be betrayed into such weakness. "It was the shock of surprise," she said in self-extenuation. "I was not expecting anything of that kind, and it naturally startled me. I know it now, and it will have no such effect a second time. I suppose I might have looked for it if I had not been so self-absorbed. Certainly it is not only natural, but very suitable. They seem made for each other; and I—I do hope they may be happy. But I must go away as soon as I can. That is necessary."

It was several days after this that the meeting between herself and Earle took place. She had been with Claire for some hours in the galleries of the Vatican, and finally before leaving they entered the beautiful Raphael Loggia—that lovely spot filled with light and color, where the most exquisite creations of the king of painters glow with immortal sunshine from the walls. As they entered and paced slowly down its length, a figure was advancing from the other end of the luminous vista toward them. Marion recognized this figure before Claire did, and so had a moment in which to take firm hold of her self-possession before the latter, turning to her quickly, said, "Yonder comes Mr. Earle."

"So I perceive," replied Marion, quietly. "He has not changed sufficiently to make an introduction necessary."

The next moment they had met, were shaking hands, and exchanging greetings. Of the two Marion preserved her composure best. Earle was surprised by his own emotion when he saw again the face that once had power to move him so deeply. He had said to himself that its power was over, that he was cured in the fullest sense of that which he looked back upon as brief infatuation; but now that he found himself again in Marion's presence, a thrill of the old emotion seemed to stir, and for a moment rendered him hardly able to speak.

Conventionalities are powerful things, however, and the emotion must be very strong that is not successfully held in check by them. Claire went on speaking in her gentle voice, giving the others time to recover any self-possession which they might have lost.

"We just came for a turn in this beautiful place before going home," she said to Earle. "They are my delight, these loggia of the Vatican. All the sunshine and charm of Italy seem to meet in the divine loveliness of the frescos within, and the beauty of the classic gardens without. A Papal audience is never so picturesque, I am sure, as when it is held in one of these noble galleries."

Earle assented rather absently; then saying, "If you are about to go home, I will see you to your carriage," turned and joined them. It was a singular sensation to find himself walking again by Marion's side; and the recollection of their last parting returned so vividly to his mind that when he spoke he could only say, "My poor uncle's life was much, shorter than I imagined it would be, Miss Lynde."

"Yes," replied Marion, quietly. "His death was a great surprise to everyone. I am sure you did not think when you parted from him that his life would be numbered only by weeks."

"I certainly did not think so," he answered, with emphasis. Then he paused and hesitated. Conversation seemed hedged with more difficulties than he had anticipated. His parting with his uncle had been so closely connected with his parting from Marion, that he found it a subject impossible to pursue. He dropped it abruptly, therefore, and remarked: "I was greatly surprised to learn from Miss Alford that my cousin George Singleton is alive, and has returned from the wild regions in which he buried himself."

This was a better opening. Marion replied that Mr. Singleton's appearance had astonished everyone concerned, but that his identity was fully established. "Indeed," she added, "I do not think there was a doubt in the mind of any one after he made his personal appearance."

"And you gave up your fortune to him?" said Earle, with a sudden keen glance at her.

She colored. "I did not feel that it was my fortune," she answered, "but rather his. Surely his father must have believed him dead, else he would never have made such a disposition of his property."

"That was my impression—that he believed him dead. But it is difficult to speak with certainty about a man so peculiar and so reticent as my uncle. You will, perhaps, pardon me for saying that, since he had left you his fortune, I do not think you were bound to resign it all."

"I suppose," said Marion, somewhat coldly, "that I was not bound to resign any of it: I had, no doubt, a legal right to keep whatever the law did not take from me. But I am not so mercenary as you believe. I could not keep what I did not believe to be rightfully mine."

Despite pride, her voice trembled a little over the last words; and Earle was immediately filled with self-reproach to think that he had wounded her.

"So far from believing you mercenary," he said gravely, "I think that you have acted with extraordinary generosity,—a generosity carried, indeed, beyond prudence. Forgive me for alluding to the subject. I only regret that my uncle's intentions toward you have been so entirely frustrated."

"I have the recollection of his great kindness," she said, hurriedly. "I know that he desired to help me, therefore I felt it right to keep something. I did not leave myself penniless."

"You would have been wrong if you had done so," remarked Earle; "but it would have been better still if you had kept a fair amount of the fortune."

"Oh, no!" she replied; "for I had no claim to any of it—no claim, I mean, of relationship. I was a stranger to your uncle, and I only kept such an amount as it seemed to me a kind-hearted man might give to a stranger who had wakened his interest. Mr. George Singleton was very kind, too. He wished me to keep more, but I would not."

"I understand how you felt," said Earle; "and I fear I should have acted in the same manner myself, so I really cannot blame you. I only think it a pity."

The gentleness and respect of his tone touched and pleased her. She felt that it implied more approval and sympathy than he liked to express. Unconsciously her eyes thanked him; and when they parted a little later in one of the courts of the Vatican, each felt that the awkwardness of meeting was over, and that there was no reason why they should shrink from meeting again.

"I have wronged her," said Earle to himself as he strolled away. "She is not the absolutely mercenary and heartless creature I had come to believe her. I might have known that I was wrong, or Miss Alford would not make a friend of her. Whoever she likes must be worthy of being liked."

CHAPTER XXXII.

It was soon apparent to Marion that Claire's talent was as fully recognized by the artists who made her circle now, as it had been by the nuns in the quiet convent she had left. They praised her work, they asked her judgment upon their own, and they prophesied a great future for her—a future of the highest distinction and the most solid rewards.

"I knew how it would be, Claire," Marion said one day, as she sat in the studio of the young artist watching her at work. "I always knew that you would succeed, whoever else failed. Do you remember our last conversation together—you and Helen and I—the evening before we left school, when we told one another what we desired most in life? I said money; well, I have had it, and was forced to choose between giving it up or giving up my self-respect. I have found out already that there are worse things than to be poor. Helen said happiness—poor, dear Helen! and the happiness of which she was thinking slipped out of her fingers like a vapor. But you, Claire,—you chose something worthy: you chose success in art, and God has given it to you."

"Yes," observed Claire, meditatively, "I have had some success; I feel within myself the power to do good work, and my power is recognized by those whose praise is of value. I feel that my future is assured—that I can make money enough for all my needs, and also the fame which it is natural for every artist to desire. But, Marion, do you know that with this realization has come a great sense of its unsatisfactoriness? There are days in which I lay down my brushes and say to myself 'Cui bono?' as wearily as the most world-weary man."

"Claire, it is impossible!"

Claire smiled a little sadly as she went on mixing her colors. "It is very possible and very true," she said. "And I suppose the moral of it is that there is no real satisfaction in the possession of any earthly ideal. We desire it, we work for it, and when we get it we find that it has no power to make us happy. We three, each of us in different ways, found that out, Marion."

"But there was no similarity in the ways," replied Marion. "Mine was an unworthy ideal, and Helen's a foolish one; but yours was all that it ought to be, and it seems to me that you should be perfectly happy in the attainment of it."

"And so I am happy," said Claire. "Do not mistake me. I am happy, and very grateful to God; but I cannot pretend to a satisfaction in the attainment of my wishes which I do not find. There is something lacking. Though I love art, it does not fill the needs of my nature. I want something more—something which I do not possess—as an object, an incentive—"

She broke off abruptly, and Marion was silent for a moment from sheer astonishment. That Claire should feel in this way—Claire so calm, so self-contained, so devoted to her art, so ambitious of success in it—amazed her beyond the power of expression, until suddenly a light dawned upon her and she seemed to see what it meant. It meant—it must mean—that Claire in her loneliness felt the need of love, and the ties that love creates. Friends were all very well, but friends could not satisfy the heart in the fullest sense; neither could the pleasure of painting pictures, nor the praise of critics, however warm. Yes, Claire desired love—that was plain; and love was at hand for her to take—love that Marion had thrown away.

"It is just and right," said the latter to herself. "I have nothing to complain of—nothing! And she must not think that I will regret it. I must find a way to make her understand this." After a minute she spoke aloud: "Certainly you have surprised me, Claire; for I did think that you were happy. But I suppose the moral is, as you say, that the attainment of no object which we set before ourselves is able to render us thoroughly satisfied. But your pictures are so beautiful that it must be a pleasure to paint them."

"Genius is too great a word to apply to me," remarked Claire, quietly. "But it is a pleasure to paint; I should be ungrateful beyond measure if I denied that. I have much happiness in it, and I am more than content with the success God has granted me. I only meant to say that it has not the power to satisfy me completely. But that, I suppose, nothing of a purely earthly nature can have."

"Do you think not?" asked Marion, rather wistfully. This is "a hard saying" for youth to believe, even after experience has somewhat taught its truth. Indeed the belief that there may be lasting good in some earthly ideal, eagerly sought, eagerly desired, does not end with youth. Men and women pursue such delusions to the very end of life, and lie down at last in the arms of death without having ever known any lasting happiness, or lifted their eyes to the one Ideal which can alone satisfy the yearning of their poor human hearts.

This glimpse of Claire's inmost feeling was not forgotten by Marion. It seemed to her that it made matters plain, and she had now no doubt how the affair would end as regarded Earle. She said again to herself, "I must go away;" but she knew that to go immediately would be to betray herself, and this she passionately desired not to do. Therefore she did what was the next best thing—she avoided Earle as much as possible, so markedly indeed that it would have been impossible for him to force himself upon her even if he had desired to do so. She persevered in this line of conduct so resolutely that Claire began to think that some conclusions she had drawn at first were a mistake, and that the alienation between these two was indeed final.

But Marion's success cost her dearly. It was a severe discipline through which she was passing—a discipline which tried every power of her nature, in which there was a constant struggle to subdue everything that was most dominant within her. Passion that had grown stronger with time, selfishness that demanded what it desired, vanity that smarted under forgetfulness, and pride that longed to assert itself in power,—all of these struggled against the resolution which kept them down. But the resolution did not fail. "After having thrown away my own happiness by my own fault, I will die before I sacrifice Claire's," she determined. But it was a hard battle to fight alone; and, had she relied solely upon her own strength, might never have been fought at all, or at least would have ended very soon. But Rome is still Rome, in that it offers on every side such spiritual aids and comforts as no other spot of earth affords.

If Marion had begun to find mysterious peace in the bare little chapel of Scarborough, was she less likely to find it here in these ancient sanctuaries of faith, these great basilicas that in their grandeur dwarf all other temples of earth,—that in their beauty are like glimpses of the heavenly courts, and in their solemn holiness lay on the spirit a spell that language can but faintly express? It was not long before this spell came upon her like a fascination. When the heavy curtains swung behind her, and she passed from the sunlight of the streets into the cool dimness of some vast church; when through lines of glistening marble columns—columns quarried for pagan temples by the captives of ancient Rome—she passed to chapels rich with every charm of art and gift of wealth,—to sculptured altars where for long ages the Divine Victim had been offered, and the unceasing incense of prayer ascended,—she felt as if she asked only to remain and steep her weary heart and soul in the ineffable repose which she found there.

She expressed something of this one day to Claire, when they passed out of Santa Maria Maggiore into the light of common day; and Claire looked at her, with a smile in her deep grey eyes.

"Yes," she said, in her usual quiet tone, "I know that feeling very well. But it is not possible to have only the comfort of religion: we must taste also the struggle and the sacrifice it demands. We must leave the peace of the sanctuary to fight our appointed battle in the world, or else we must make one great sacrifice and leave the world to find our home and work in the sanctuary. I do not think that will ever be your vocation, Marion, so you must be content with carrying some of the peace of the sanctuary back with you into the world. Only, my dear"—her voice sank a little,—"I think if you would take one decisive step, you would find that peace more real and enduring."

"I know what you mean," answered Marion, thoughtfully. "I cannot tell why I have delayed so long. I certainly believe whatever the Catholic Church teaches, because I am sure that if she has not the truth in her possession, it is not on earth. I am willing to do whatever she commands, but I am not devotional, Claire. I cannot pretend to be."

"There is no need to pretend," returned Claire, gently; "nor yet to torment yourself about your deficiency in that respect. Yours is not a devotional nature, Marion; but all the more will your service be of value, because you will offer it not to please yourself, but to obey and honor God. Do not fear on that account, but come let me take you to my good friend, Monsignor R——."

"Take me where you will," said Marion. "If I can only retain and make my own the peace that I sometimes feel in your churches, I will do anything that can be required of me."

"I do not think you will find that anything hard will be required of you," observed Claire, with a smile that was almost angelic in its sweetness and delight.

And truly Marion found, as myriads have found before her, that no path was ever made easier, more like the guiding of a mother's hand, than that which led her into the Church of God. So gentle were the sacramental steps, and each so full of strange, mysterious sweetness, that this period ever after seemed like a sanctuary in her life—a spot set apart and sacred, as hallowed with the presence of the Lord. She had willingly followed the suggestion of the good priest, and gone into a convent for a few days before her reception into the Church. This reception took place in the lovely convent chapel, where, surrounded by the nuns, with only Claire and Mrs. Kerr present from the outer world, it seemed to Marion as if time had indeed rolled back, and she was again at the beginning of life. But what a different beginning! Looking at the selfish and worldly spirit with which she had faced the world before, she could only thank God with wondering gratitude for the lesson He had taught so soon, and the rescue He had inspired.

When she found herself again in Claire's salon, with a strange sense of having been far away for a great length of time, one of the first people to congratulate her on the step she had taken was Brian Earle. He was astonished when Claire told him where Marion had gone, and he was more astonished now at the look on her face as she turned it to him. Although he could not define it, there was a withdrawal, an aloofness in that face which he had never seen there before. Nor was this an imagination on his part. Marion felt, with a sense of infinite relief, that she had been withdrawn from the influence he unconsciously exerted upon her; that it was no longer painful to her to see him; that the higher feeling in which she had been absorbed had taken the sting out of the purely natural sentiment that had been a trouble to her. She felt a resignation to things as they were, for which she had vainly struggled before; and, even while she was withdrawn from Earle, felt a quietness so great that it amounted to pleasure in speaking to him.

"Yes," she said, in answer to his congratulation, "I have certainly proved that all roads lead to Rome. No road could have seemed less likely to lead to Rome than the one I set out on; but here I am—safe in the spiritual city. It is a wonder to me even yet."

"It is not so great a wonder to me," he replied. "I thought even in Scarborough that you were very near it."

She colored. The allusion to Scarborough made her realize how and why she had been near it then, but she recovered herself quickly. "In a certain sense I was always near it," she said, quietly. "I never for a moment believed that any religion was true except the Catholic. But no one knows better than I do now what a wide difference there is between believing intellectually and acting practically. The grace of God is absolutely necessary for the latter, and why He should have given that grace to me I do not know."

"It is difficult to tell why He should have given it to any of us," observed Earle, touched and surprised more and more. Was this indeed the girl who had once seemed to him so worldly and so mercenary? He could hardly credit the transformation that had taken place in her.

"I have never seen any one so changed as Miss Lynde," he said later to Claire. "One can believe any change possible after seeing her."

Claire smiled. "You will perhaps believe now that you only knew her superficially before," she replied. "There is certainly a change—a great change—in her. But the possibility of the change was always there."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Soon after this Claire said to herself that if these two people were ever to be brought together again it could only be by her exertions. Left to themselves, it became more and more evident that such an event would never occur. And Claire had fully arrived at the conclusion that it would be the best thing which could occur; for she had no doubt of the genuineness of Marion's regard for Earle; and, while she recognized the attraction which she herself possessed for the latter, she believed that, underlying this, his love for Marion existed still.

"But, whether it does or not, his fancy for me can come to nothing," she thought; "and the sooner he knows it, the better. I should be glad if he could know it at once. If such a thing must be stopped, there should be no delay in the matter."

It was certainly no fault of Claire's that there was any delay. Earle's manner to herself rendered her so nervous, especially when Marion was present to witness it, that she could hardly control her inclination to take matters in her own hand, and utter some words which it would be contrary to all precedent for a woman to utter until she has been asked for them. But her eagerness to make herself understood at last gave her the opportunity she so much desired.

One evening Earle inquired about a picture on which she was engaged, and of which he had seen the beginning in an open-air Campagna sketch. She replied that she was not succeeding with it as she had hoped to do; and when he asked if he might not be permitted to see it, she readily assented.

"For, you know, one is not always the best judge of one's own work," he remarked. "You may be discouraged without reason. I will give you a candid opinion as to the measure of your success."

"If you will promise an altogether candid opinion, you may come," she answered; "for you were present when I made the sketch, and so you can tell better than any one else if I have succeeded in any measure at all."

"To-morrow, then," he said,—"may I come to-morrow, and at what hour?"

Claire hesitated for a moment, and then named an hour late in the afternoon. "I shall not be at leisure before then," she said.

She did not add what was in her thoughts—that at this hour she might see him alone, since Mrs. Kerr and Marion generally went out at that time to drive. It was, she knew, contrary to foreign custom for her to receive him in such a manner; but, strong in the integrity of her own purpose, she felt that foreign customs concerned her very little.

The next day, therefore, when Earle arrived, he was informed that the ladies were out, except Miss Alford, who was in her studio, and would receive him there. A little surprised but very much pleased by this, he followed the servant to the room which Claire used as a studio when she was not studying in the galleries or in the studio of the artist who was her master.

It was a small apartment, altogether devoted to work, and without any of the decorations which make many studios show-rooms for bric-a-brac rather than places for labor. Here the easel was the chief article of furniture, and there was little else beside tables for paints and a few chairs. All was scrupulously clean, fresh and airy, however; and, with Claire's graceful figure in the midst, it seemed to Earle, as he entered, a very shrine of art—art in the noble simplicity which suits it best.

Claire, with her palette on her hand, was standing before the easel. She greeted him with a smile, and bade him come where he could command a good view of the painting. "Now be quite candid," she said; "for you know I do not care for compliments."

"And I hope you know that I never pay them—to you," he answered, as he obeyed her and stepped in front of the canvas.

It was a charming picture, a typical Campagna scene—a ruined mediæval fortress, in the lower story of which peasants had made their home, and round the door of which children were playing; a group of cattle drinking at a flag-grown pool; and, stretching far and wide, the solemn beauty of the great plain. The details were treated with great artistic skill, and the sentiment of the picture expressed admirably the wild, poetic desolation of this earth, "fatiguée de gloire, qui semble dédaigner de produire."

"You have succeeded wonderfully," said Earle, after a pause of some length. "How can you doubt it? Honestly, I did not expect to see anything half so beautiful. How admirably you have expressed the spirit of the Campagna!"

"Do you really think so?" asked Claire, coloring with pleasure. "Or, rather, I know that you would not say so if you did not think so, and therefore I am delighted to hear it. I wanted so much to express that spirit. It is what chiefly impresses me whenever I see the Campagna, and it is so impossible to put it in words."

"You have put it here," said Earle, with a gesture toward the canvas. "Never again doubt your ability to express anything that you like. You will be a great painter some day, Miss Alford; are you aware of that?"

She shook her head, and the flush of pleasure faded from her face as she turned her grave, gentle eyes to him. "No," she answered, quietly, "I do not think I shall ever be a great painter; and I will tell you why: it is because I do not think that art is my vocation—at least, not my first vocation."

"Not your first vocation to be an artist?" he said, in a tone of the greatest astonishment. "How can you think such a thing with the proof of your power before your eyes? Why, to doubt that you are an artist in every fibre of your being is equivalent to doubting that you exist."

"Not quite," she answered, smiling. "But indeed I do not doubt that I am an artist, and I used to believe that if I really could become one, and be successful in the exercise of art, I should be perfectly happy. Now I have already succeeded beyond my hopes. I cannot doubt but that those who tell me, as you have just done, that I may be a painter in the truest sense if I continue to work, are right. And yet I repeat with the utmost seriousness that I do not think it is my vocation to remain in the world and devote myself to art."

Earle looked startled as a sudden glimpse of her meaning came to his mind. "What, then," he said, "do you believe to be your vocation?"

Claire looked away from him. She did not wish to see how hard the blow she must deliver would strike.

"I believe," she said, quietly, "that it is my vocation to enter the religious life. God has given me what I desired most in the world, but it does not satisfy me. My heart was left behind in the cloister, and day by day the desire grows upon me more strongly to return there."

"But you will not!" said Earle, almost violently. "It is impossible—it would be a sacrifice such as God never demands! Why should He have given you such great talent if He wished you to bury it in a cloister?"

"Perhaps that I might have something to offer to Him," answered Claire. "Otherwise I should have nothing, you know. But there can be no question of sacrifice when one is following the strongest inclination of one's heart."

"You do not know your own heart yet," said Earle. "You are following its first inclination without testing it. How could the peace and charm of the cloister fail to attract you—you who seem made for it? But—"

Claire's lifted hand stayed his words. "See," she said, "how you bear testimony to what I have declared. If I 'seem made' for the cloister, what can that mean save that my place is there?"

"Then is there no place for pure and good and lovely people in the world?" asked Earle, conscious that his tongue had indeed betrayed him.

"Oh, yes!" she answered; "there are not only places, but there are also many duties for such people; and numbers of them are to be met on all sides. But there are also some souls whom God calls to serve Him in the silence and retirement of the cloister, who pine like homesick exiles in the world. Believe me I am one of those souls. I shrank from leaving the convent where I had been educated, to go out into the world; but I knew what everyone would say: that I was following a fancy—an untried fancy—if I stayed. So I went; and, as if to test me, everything that I desired has been given me, and given without the delays and disappointments that others have had to endure. The world has shown me only its fairest side, yet the call to something better and higher has daily grown stronger within me, until I have no longer any doubt but that it is God's will that I shall go."

Earle threw himself into a chair, and sat for a minute silent, like one stunned. He felt as if he had heard a death-warrant read—as if he was not only to be robbed individually, but the world was to be robbed of this lovely creature with her brilliant gift.

"What am I to say to you?" he cried at length, in a half-stifled voice. "This seems to me too horrible for belief. It is like suicide—the suicide of the faculties, the genius that God has given you,—of all the capabilities of your nature to enjoy,—of all the beauty, the happiness of life—"

He paused, for Claire was regarding him with a look of amazement and reproach. "You call yourself a Catholic," she said, "and yet you can speak in this way of a religious vocation!"

"I do not speak of religious vocations in general," he answered. "I only speak of yours. There are plenty of people who have nothing special to do in the world. Let them go to the cloister. But for you—you with your wonderful talent, your bright future—it is too terrible an idea to be entertained."

"Do you know," she said gravely, "that you not only shock, you disappoint me greatly? How can you be a Catholic and entertain such sentiments?—how can you think that only the useless, the worn-out, the disappointed people of this world are for God? I have been told that Protestants think such things as that, but they are surely strange for a Catholic to believe."

"I do not believe them," he said; "I am sure you know that. But when one is awfully shocked, one does not measure one's words. You do not realize how close this comes to me—how terrible the disappointment—"

She cut him short ruthlessly. "I realize," she said, with a sweet smile, "that you are very kind to have such a good opinion of me—to believe that the world will really sustain any loss when such an insignificant person as I leave it for the cloister."

"Insignificant!" he repeated, with something like a groan. "How little you know of yourself to think that! But tell me, is your mind unalterably made up to this step?—could nothing induce you to change it?"

Her eyes met his, steady and calm as stars. "Nothing," she answered, firmly but gently. "When God says, 'Come,' one must arise and go. There is no alternative. As a preparation, He fills one with such a distaste for the world, such a sense of the brevity and unsatisfactoriness of all earthly things, that they no longer have any power to attract."

"Not even human love?" he asked, almost in a whisper.

She shook her head. "Not when weighed against divine love," she answered.

In that answer everything was said, and a silence fell, in which Claire seemed to hear the beating of her heart. Would he be satisfied with this and go away without forcing her to be more explicit, or would he persist in laying on her one of the most painful necessities which can be laid upon a woman? As she waited with anxiety for the solution of this question, Earle was having something of a struggle with himself. The impulse was strong with him to declare unreservedly what he felt and what he had ventured to hope; but an instinct told him not only that it would be useless, but that he would inflict needless pain upon Claire, and mar their friendship by a memory of words that could serve no possible purpose. He knew that she understood him; he recognized the motive which had made her speak to him of a purpose that he felt sure had been spoken of to no other among her associates and friends; and he was strong enough to say to himself that he would keep silence—that she should know no more than she had already guessed of the pain which it cost him to hear her resolution.

When he presently looked at her, it was with a face pale with feeling, but calm with the power of self-control. "Such a choice," he said, "it is not for me or for any other man to combat. I only venture to beg you not to act hastily. It would be terrible to take such a step and regret it."

Claire smiled almost as a cloistered nun might smile at such words. "Do you think that one ever takes such a step hastily? No: there is a long probation before me; and if I have spoken to you somewhat prematurely, it was only because I thought I should like you to know—"

"I understand," he said, as she hesitated. "It is well that I should know. Do not think that I am so dull as to mistake you in the least. I am honored by your confidence, and I shall remember it and you as long as I live. Now"—he rose—"I must bid you good-bye. I think of leaving Rome for a time. I have a friend in Naples who is urging me to join him in a journey to the East. Can I do anything for you in the Holy Land?"

"You can pray for me," said Claire; "and believe that wherever I may be I shall always pray for you."

"What better covenant could be made?" he asked, with a faint smile. And then, in order to preserve his composure, he took her hand, kissed it, and went hastily away.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

And so for Earle those Roman days ended, with the brief dream which he had indulged of finding in Claire's heart a response for the feeling that had arisen in his own. Yet no disappointment can be very keen when hope has not been very great, and Earle was well aware that he had never possessed any ground for hope. Kind and gentle as Claire had been, he was always conscious of something about her which seemed to set her at a remote distance,—an indefinable manner which had made him once call her "a vestal of art." He understood this now, but he had felt it before he understood it, and so the blow was not as heavy as it might have been if this underlying instinct had not existed. A vestal!—the expression had been well chosen; for there was indeed a vestal-like quality about her,—a vestal-like charm, which seemed to inspire thoughts of cloisteral tranquillity, and keep the fires of human passion at bay. This exquisite quality had been her chief attraction to Earle: its very unlikeness to the nature which had fascinated him, and from which he had recoiled, making its charm the greater; but even while it attracted, he had felt that it removed her from him and made hope wear the guise of presumption.

Now all hope was finally at an end; and, since it is in human nature to resign itself to the inevitable, the wound might be said to carry its own cure. Earle was aware of this, and he left Rome in no melodramatic spirit whatever; but feeling it best to go, in order to recover that calm and healthy control of himself and his own feelings which had been lacking with him since he first met Marion in Scarborough. As we know that nature abhors a vacuum, it is probable that his attachment to Claire arose partly from the disappointment of that prior attachment—from the need of the heart to put another object in the place of that which had been dethroned; but, leaving all analysis of the kind for the future, he quietly accepted the pain of the present and went away.

Marion had not the least doubt of the reason of his going, although no word fell from Claire on the subject. She said to herself that she was sorry—that she had hoped to know that Claire and himself were happy together, since they suited each other so well; but, although she was sincere in thinking this, there could be no doubt that, despite herself, she felt his departure to be a relief—that it relaxed a strain in which she held herself,—and that if a blank followed, a sense of peace, of release from painful conflict, also came. "I suffer through my own fault," she reflected; "therefore it is quite right that I should suffer." And such acceptance robbed the suffering of half its sting.

Two or three tranquil months followed—months during which the influences that surrounded her sank deep into Marion, and seemed to be moulding over again the passionate, impulsive nature. Claire was one of the foremost of these influences, as Marion herself was well aware; and more than once she thought that she would be content if she might spend her life near the friend who had always seemed to her the voice of her better self. She had begun to study art—having a very fair talent,—and one day as she sat working at a study she said to Claire, who was painting busily on the other side of the room:—

"If I can ever grow to be anything of an artist, what a pleasure it will be for us to live and work together! I cannot think of anything I should prefer to that."

Claire smiled a little. "Nevertheless," she said, "there may be something that you will prefer as time goes on, although our association is very pleasant—as pleasant to me as to you."

"Is there anything that you would prefer?" asked Marion; for something in the tone of the other struck her with surprise.

Claire did not answer for a moment. Then she said, quietly: "Yes. I must be frank with you. There is something I should prefer even to your companionship, even to art. I should prefer to go back to the convent that I have never ceased to regret."

Marion's brush dropped from her hand. She was astonished beyond measure, for it was the first intimation she had received of such a feeling on Claire's part. "Go back to the convent," she cried, "and give up you art!—Claire, are you mad?"

"Very sane, my dear," answered Claire, smiling. "I have disliked to tell you about it, because I knew you would be sorry. I am sorry, too, that it should be necessary for us to part; but I grow daily more certain that my vocation lies not in the world but in the cloister."

"I am more than sorry—I am shocked!" said Marion. "With your talent!—why, all the artists whom we know say that your future is certain to be a brilliant one. And to bury that in a cloister!—Claire, it should not be allowed!"

Claire remembered what other voice had said this, almost in the same words; but she was no more moved by it now than she had been then.

"Who should prevent it?" she asked. "If you, for instance, had the power, would you venture to prevent it—to say that any soul should serve the world instead of serving God?"

"That is not a fair way to put it. Cannot people serve God in the world as well as in the cloister?"

"Surely yes, if it is their vocation to do so. But if one has a vocation for the religious life—if that imperative call is heard, which cannot be realized except by those who hear it, bidding one arise and go forth,—then one cannot serve God as well in the world as in the cloister."

"But, Claire, may you not imagine this call? I cannot believe that God would have given you such a talent if He had not meant you to make the most of it. Think how much good you might do if you remained in the world—how much money you might make, as well as how much fame you might win!"

"My dear," said Claire, with gentle solemnity, "how much will either money or fame weigh in the scales of eternity? I want to work for eternity rather than for time; and I am, happily, free to do so—to go back to the cloister, where I left my heart. Do not make it painful for me. Try to reconcile yourself to it, and to believe that God makes no mistakes."

"I cannot be reconciled," said Marion. "It is not only that I cannot bear to give you up—that I cannot bear for you to resign the success of which I have been proud in anticipation,—but I am selfish, too. I think of my own life. You are my one anchor in the world, and I have been happy in the thought of our living together, of our—"

Her voice broke down in tears. It was indeed a blow which fell more heavily than Claire had reckoned on. Feeling assured herself what would be the end for Marion, she overlooked the fact that Marion herself had no such assurance. In her disappointment and her friendlessness she had come to Claire as to a secure refuge, and lo! that refuge was now about to fail her. Emotion overpowered her—the strong emotion of a nature which rarely yields to it,—and for some minutes she was hardly conscious that Claire's tender arms were around her, and Claire's tender voice was bidding her take comfort and courage.

"I am not going to leave you immediately, nor even soon," that voice said; "and I should certainly not leave you, under any circumstances, until I saw you well placed and happy. Dear Marion, do not distress yourself. Let us leave things in God's hands. He will show us what is best."

"I am a wretch to distress you," said Marion, struggling with her tears. "But you must not believe me more selfish than I am. Do you think I should only miss you as a convenience of my life? No, it is you, Claire—your influence, yourself—that I shall miss beyond all measure. No one in the world can take your place with me—no one!"

"But there may be a place as good for some one else to take," said Claire. "Do not fear: the path will open before you. If we trust God He will certainly show us what to do. Trust Him, Marion, and try to be reconciled, will you not?"

"I will try," Marion answered; "but I fear that I never can be. You see now, Claire, how strong a hold the world has on me. If I were good, if I were spiritual-minded, I should be glad for you to do this thing; but as it is, my whole feeling is one of vehement opposition."

"That will not last," said Claire. "I have seen it often, even in people whom you would have called very spiritual-minded; but it ended in the belief that whatever God wills is best. You will feel that, too, before long."

Marion shook her head sadly, but she would not pain Claire by further words. She felt that her resolution was immovable, however long it might be before it was executed. "So there is nothing for me but to try to resign myself," she thought. "I wish it were my vocation that I might go with her; for everything that I care for seems to slip from my grasp."

Apart from resigning herself in feeling, there was also a practical side of the question which she was well aware must be considered. Where was she to go, with whom was she to live when Claire had left her, and, like a weary dove, flown back to cloister shades? She considered this question anxiously; and she had not arrived at any definite conclusion, when one day a letter came which made her utter a cry of surprise and pleasure.

"This is from Helen," she said, meeting Claire's glance; "and what I hoped and expected has come to pass—she has promised to marry Mr. Singleton."

"Helen!" exclaimed Claire, in a tone of incredulity. "Why, I thought he wanted to marry you."

Marion laughed. "That was a mistake on his part," she said, "which fortunately did not impose upon me. Perhaps he was a little in love—the circumstances favored such a delusion,—but I am sure his ruling motive for asking me to marry him was to give me that share of the fortune which he could not induce me to take in any other way. I really did not suit him at all. I saw before I left that Helen did suit him, and I hoped for just what has come to pass. O Claire, you don't know how happy it makes me! For I feel now as if I had in a measure atoned to Helen for the pain I caused her about that wretched Rathborne."

"How?" asked Claire, smiling. "By making over Mr. Singleton and his fortune to her? But I am afraid you can scarcely credit yourself with having done that."

"Only indirectly, but it is certain that if I had accepted him he could not be engaged to her now. I am so glad—so very glad! He is really a good fellow, and Helen will be able to do a great deal with him."

"Is he a Catholic?"

"She says that he has just been received into the Church. But here is the letter. Read it for yourself. I think she is very happy."

Claire read the letter with interest, and when she had finished, returned it, saying, "Yes, I think she is certainly very happy. Dear Helen! how we always said that she was made for happiness! And now God seems to have given it to her in the form of great worldly prosperity—the very prosperity that you lost. Are not His ways strange to us?"

"This is not at all strange to me," replied Marion. "What I lost would have ruined me; what Helen has gained will have no effect upon her, except to make her more kind and more charitable. She is one of the people whom prosperity cannot harm. Therefore it is given her in full measure. But it certainly would have been singular if I could have foreseen that after I had gained my fortune it would pass into Helen's hands, and that by a simple process of retribution. For if matters had remained as they were between Rathborne and herself, there could have been no question of this. And they would have so remained but for me."

"You should be very grateful," said Claire, "that you have been allowed to atone so fully for a fault that you might have had to regret always. Now it can be forgotten. Helen says she will be married in April, does she not?"

Marion turned to the letter. "Yes, in April—just after Easter. Claire, let us beg her to come abroad for her wedding journey, and join us?"

"With all my heart," said Claire. "They can come here for a little time, and then we can go with them to Switzerland, or the Italian lakes, or wherever they wish to go for the summer. It will be pleasant for us to be together once more—for the last time."

"Claire, you break my heart when you talk so!"

"Oh! no," said Claire, gently, "I am very sure that I do not break your heart; and if I sadden you a little, that is necessary; but it will not last long. There is no need to think of it now, however; only think that you and Helen and I will pass a few happy days together—for I suppose Mr. Singleton will not be much of a drawback—before we start on another and a different beginning of life from that on which we entered when we left our dear convent."

EPILOGUE.

A year from the summer day when three girls had stood together on the eve of parting in their convent school-room, the same three were seated together on the shores of the Lago di Como. The garden of the hotel in which they were staying extended to the verge of the lake, and they had found a lovely leafy nook, surrounded by oleander and myrtle, with an unobstructed view over the blue sparkling water and the beautiful shores, framed by mountains.

"A year ago to-day!" said Marion, meditatively, after a pause of some length. "Do you remember how we wondered when and where we should be together again? And here we are, with an experience behind us which is full of dramatic changes and full of instructions—at least for me."

"Certainly for me also," observed Helen. "Looking back on what I passed through, I realize clearly how foolish we are to regret the loss of things that seem to us desirable, but which God knows to be just the reverse. How miserable I was for a time! Yet that very misery was paving the way for my present happiness."

"Very directly," said Marion, "yet it is something I do not like to think of; for it might all have ended so differently but for the mercy of God—and yours too, Helen. You deserve happiness, because you were so gentle and generous under unhappiness. As for me, I deserve nothing good, yet I have gained a great deal—the gift of faith, relief from self-reproach, and the great pleasure of being here with you and Claire."

Claire looked at the speaker with a smile. "The pleasure of being together is one that we all share," she said; "and also, I think, the sense of great gratitude to God. How much have I, for instance, to be grateful for—I who a year ago went forth into the world with so much reluctance—that the way has been made so clear to my feet; that I have now such a sense of peace, such a conviction of being in the right path!"

The others did not answer. It was hard for them—particularly hard for Marion—to give full sympathy on this point; for the pain of impending separation was hanging over them, and not even their recognition of the peace of which Claire spoke could make them altogether willing to see her pass out of their lives forever. There is the irrrevocableness and therefore the pain of death in such partings, intensified by the fact that just in proportion as a character is fitted for the religious life does it possess the virtues to endear it most to those associated with it in the world. In such cases renunciation is not altogether on one side; and although Marion had struggled for the strength to make this renunciation, she could not yet control herself sufficiently to speak of it. Her own future looked very blank to her, although it had been decided that she should remain with Helen, at least for a time, when Claire left them.

"I will stay with you until after your return to America," she had said to Helen when her plans were discussed; "but then I must find something to do—some occupation with which to fill my life."

Helen shook her head. "I am sure that George will never consent to that," she answered.

"And what has George to do with it?" asked Marion, amused by the calm, positive tone of Helen's speech. "I am really not aware that he has any control over me."

"Control—no," answered Helen; "but he feels that he owes you so much—the recovery of his father's fortune without any expense or division—that he is anxious to find something he can do for you, and he has said again and again how much he wished that you would allow him to make you independent."

"He could not make me independent of the need to fill my life with some work worth the doing," said Marion. "I do not yet perceive what it is to be, but no doubt I shall find out."

"Of course you will find out," said Claire, with her gentle, unquestioning faith. "God never fails to show the way to one who is willing to see it."

The way, however, had not yet been made clear to Marion as the three sat together on this anniversary of their first parting. She felt the difference between herself and her companions very keenly. To them life showed itself as a clear path, which they had only to follow to be certain that they were in the way of duty. All doubts and perplexities were at an end for them, whereas for her they seemed only beginning. What, indeed, was she to do with her life? She could as yet see no answer to that question, and could only trust that in God's time the way would be made clear to her.

The silence after Claire's last speech lasted some time; for there seemed little to be said, though much to be felt, on the events of the past year. At length Helen observed, looking around toward the hotel, "How long George is in coming! He promised to follow us almost immediately, and I think we must have been here almost an hour."

"Oh! no," said Claire, smiling, "not so long as that. But certainly he has not fulfilled his promise of coming soon."

"And it is a pity," continued Helen; "for just now is the most delightful time to be on the water. I believe I will go and look for him. Will any one else come?"

Claire, who was always in readiness to do anything asked of her, assented and rose. But Marion kept her seat. "I think this is almost as pleasant as being on the water," she said. "But when you have found George, and he has found a boat, and all is in readiness, you may summon me. Meanwhile I am very comfortable where I am."

"We will summon you, then, when we are ready," said Helen. And the two walked away toward the hotel.

Marion, who had still, as of old, a great liking for solitude, settled herself, after the others left, in a corner of the bench on which they had been seated, and looked at the lovely scene before her eyes which saw its beauty as in a dream. She was living over her life of the past year while she gazed at the distant, glittering Alpine summits; and although she had spoken truly in saying that she was deeply conscious of gratitude for many dangers escaped, and chiefly for the wonderful gift of faith, there nevertheless remained a sharp recollection of failure and pain dominating all her thoughts of the past.

Her face was very grave, therefore, and her brows knitted with an expression of thought or suffering, when a man presently came around a bend of the path, and paused an instant, unobserved, to regard her. He saw, or fancied that he saw, many changes in that face since it had fascinated him first; but they were not changes which detracted from its charm. The beauty was as striking as ever, but the expression had altered much. There was no longer a curve of disdain on the perfect lips, nor a light of mockery in the brilliant eyes. The countenance had softened even while it had grown more serious, and its intellectual character was more manifest than ever. These things struck Brian Earle during the minute in which he paused. Then, fearing to be observed, he came forward.

His step on the path roused Marion's attention, and, turning her eyes quickly from the distant scene, she was amazed to see before her the man who was just then most clearly in her thoughts.

Startled almost beyond the power of self-control, she said nothing. It was he who advanced and spoke. "Forgive me if I intrude, Miss Lynde—but I was told that I should find you here; and—and I hoped that you would not object to seeing me."

Marion, who had now recovered herself, held out her hand to meet his, saying, quietly, "Why should I object? But it is a great surprise. I had no idea that you were in this part of the world at all."

"My arrival here is very recent," he said, sitting down beside her; "and you may fancy my surprise when, an hour after my arrival, I met George Singleton, and heard the extraordinary news of his marriage to your cousin."

"That must have astonished you very much. We first heard of it after you left Rome."

"It astonished me the more," he said with some hesitation, "because I had fancied it likely that in the end you would marry him."

"I!" she said, coloring quickly and vividly. Then after a moment she added, with a tinge of bitterness in her tone, "Such an idea was natural, perhaps, considering your opinion of me. But it was a great mistake."

"So I have learned," he answered. "But when you speak of my opinion of you, may I ask what you conceive it to be?"

"Is it necessary that we should discuss it?" she asked with a touch of her old haughtiness. "It is not of importance—to me."

"I am sure of that," he said, with something of humility. "But, believe me, your opinion of it is of importance to me. Therefore I should very much like to know what you believe that I think of you."

Her straight brows grew closer together. She spoke with the air of one who wishes to end a disagreeable subject. "This seems to me very unnecessary, Mr. Earle; but, since you insist, I suppose that you think me altogether mercenary and ready, if the opportunity had been given me, to marry your cousin for his fortune."

"Thank you," he answered when she ceased speaking. "I am much obliged by your frankness. I feared that you did me just such injustice; and yet, Miss Lynde, how can you? In the first place, do you suppose that I am unaware that you gave his father's fortune intact to my cousin? And in the second place, have I not heard that you refused it when he offered it to you again, with himself? If I had ever fancied you mercenary, could I continue so to mistake you after hearing these things? But indeed I never did think you mercenary, not even in the days when we differed most on the question which finally divided us. I did not think then that you desired wealth for itself, or that you would have done anything unworthy to gain it; but I thought you exaggerated its value for the sake of the things it could purchase, and I believed then (what I know now) that you did injustice to the nobleness of your own nature in setting before yourself worldly prosperity as your ideal of happiness."

She shook her head a little sadly. "The less said of the nobleness of my nature the better," she answered; "but I soon found that the ideal was a very poor one, and one which could not satisfy me. I am glad your cousin came to claim that fortune, which might else have weighed me down with its responsibility to the end."

"And do you forgive me," he said, leaning toward her and lowering his voice, "for having refused that fortune?"

"Does it matter," she answered, somewhat nervously, "whether I forgive you or not? It would have ended in the same way. You, too, would have had to give it up when your cousin appeared."

"But, putting that aside, can you not now realize a little better my motives, and forgive whatever seemed harsh or dictatorial in my conduct?"

Marion had grown very pale. "I have no right to judge your conduct," she said.

"You had a right then, and you exercised it severely. Perhaps I was too presumptuous, too decided in my opinion and refusal. I have thought so since, and I should like to hear you say that you forgive it."

"I cannot imagine," she said, with a marked lack of her usual self-possession, "why you should attach any importance to my forgiveness—granting that I have anything to forgive."

"Can you not? Then I will tell you why I attach importance to it. Because during these months of absence I have learned that my attachment to you is as great as it ever was—as great, do I say? Nay, it is much greater, since I know you better now, and the nobleness in which I formerly believed has been proved. I can hardly venture to hope for so much happiness, but if it is possible that you can think of me again, that you can forgive and trust me, I should try, by God's help, to deserve your trust better."

"Do not speak in that manner," said Marion, with trembling lips. "It is I who should ask forgiveness, if there is to be any question of it at all. But I thought you had forgotten me—it was surely natural enough,—and that when you went away it was because—on account of—Claire."

"You were right," he answered, quietly. "I meant to tell you that. In the reaction of my disappointment about you, I thought of your friend; because I admired her so much, I fancied I was in love with her. But when she put an end to such fancies by telling me gently and kindly of her intention to enter the religious life, I learned my mistake. The thought of her passed away like a dream—like a shadow that has crossed a mirror,—and I found that you, Marion, had been in my heart all the time. I tested myself by absence, and I returned with the intention of seeking you wherever you were to be found, and asking you if there is no hope for me—no hope of winning your heart and your trust again."

There was a moment's pause, and then she held out her hand to him.

"You have never lost either," she said.

(The End.)