“Bending forward to catch a better view of him as he spoke, the rustling of my dress reminded Eleanor of my presence.

“‘My cousin Elizabeth Purcill, Thornton Lee,’ said she.  ’My two good friends I hope will also be friends to each other.’

“Mr. Lee made me a gentlemanly bow, and said something about the pleasure of seeing me; but more than suspecting that my presence in the library was no pleasure to either of them, I shut up my journal, crowded it into the box, and stole out of the room at the first convenient opportunity.  On the stairs I met Mrs. Bickford, the housekeeper.

“‘Is any one in the library with Miss Purcill?’ asked she.

“‘Yes,—­a Mr. Lee.’

“‘Mr. Lee?’ exclaimed she, in surprise.  ’I did not know as he was expected home now.’

“‘Who is Mr. Lee?’

“’He is the gentleman whom Miss Purcill is to marry; but I thought he was not coming till autumn.  I wonder if she knew it.’

“What Eleanor knows she always keeps to herself; none of her household are any the wiser for it.  I was more surprised than Mrs. Bickford.  Eleanor affianced!  I never thought or dreamed of such a thing.  Eleanor in love must be a curious spectacle.  I did not feel sleepy any longer.  What could a woman, so independent, so self-relying, so sufficient for herself, want of a lover?  She always seemed to be a whole, and did not need another half to complete herself.  I speculated much on the subject, and, when the bell rang for tea, went down-stairs with something of the same feeling of eager curiosity with which I open the pages of a good novel.  There is nothing so interesting to idle, observant people as a pair of lovers, provided they are not silly, in which stage they are perfectly unbearable, and never should suffer themselves to be seen even by their intimate friends.  Was it my fancy, or not?  I thought Eleanor had grown young since I left the library.  A soft light beamed in her eyes, and a clear crimson—­the first trace of color I had ever seen in her face—­burned on her cheek.  It was a very different countenance from that at which I had been casting sidelong glances half the day, and yet it seemed to me that she was ashamed of these signs of joy, and thought it but a weakness to feel so glad.  I sat silent nearly all the evening;—­words always come more readily to my pen than to my lips, and, were it not so, there would have been no occasion for any speech of mine.  Their conversation flowed on uninterruptedly, like a full, free river, whose current is strong and deep.  How much richer both their lives seemed than mine!  He had travelled, thought, seen, and felt so much, and had brought such wealth home with him, fitly coined into aptly chosen words; and she had gathered treasures as priceless from the literature of her own and foreign lands.  I had nothing to offer either of them but my ears, and for those I doubt whether they felt grateful,—­and when that doubt became a certainty, I crept into the great window in the drawing-room, and looked out upon the lawn.  The moon, breaking through the clouds, shone brightly on the new-fallen snow.  I sat down on a low chair,—­the curtains fell about me,—­their voices came to me with a low, dreamy sound,—­I leaned my head on my hand, and fell asleep.  When I awoke, the fire had died away, and the chairs were empty.