I wanted to go to my room, as I thought it time to arrange my trunks and boxes; besides, I needed rest—­the sad luxury of reaction.  But word was brought to the house that Arthur had disappeared, in company with two boys notorious for mischief.  His teacher was afraid they might have put out to sea in a crazy sailboat.  We were in a state of alarm till dark, when father came home, bringing him, having found him on the way to Milford.  Veronica had not returned.  It stormed violently, and father was vexed because a horse must be sent through the storm for her.  At last I obtained the asylum of my room, in an irritable frame of mind, convinced that such would be my condition each day.  Composure came with putting my drawers and shelves in order.  The box with Desmond’s flowers I threw into the fire, without opening it, ribbon and all, for I could not endure the sight of them.  I unfolded the dresses I had worn on the occasions of my meeting him; even the collars and ribbons I had adorned myself with were conned with jealous, greedy eyes; in looking at them all other remembrances connected with my visit vanished.  The handkerchief scented with violets, which I found in the pocket of the dress I had worn when I met him at Mrs. Hepburn’s, made me childish.  I was holding it when Veronica entered, bringing with her an atmosphere of dampness.

“Violet!  I like it.  There is not one blooming yet, Temperance says.  Why are they so late?  There’s only this pitiful snake-grass,” holding up a bunch of drooping, pale blossoms.

“Oh, Verry, can you forgive me?  I did not forget these, but I felt the strangest disinclination to look them up.”  And I gave her the jewel box and letter.

She seized them, and opened the box first.

“Child-Verry.”

“I never was a child, you know; but I am always trying to find my childhood.”

She took a necklace from the box, composed of a single string of small, beautiful pearls, from which hung an egg-shaped amethyst of pure violet.  She fastened the necklace round her throat.

“It is as lucent as the moon,” she said, looking down at the amethyst, which shed a watery light; “I wish you had given it to me before.”

Breaking the seal of the letter, with a twist of her mouth at the coat-of-arms impressed upon it, she shook out the closely written pages, and saying, “There is a volume,” began reading.  “It is very good,” she observed at the end of the first page, “a regular composition,” and went on with an air of increasing interest.  “How does he look?” she asked, stopping again.

“As if he longed to see you.”

Her eyes went in quest of him so far that I thought they must be startled by a sudden vision.

“How did you find his family?”

“Not like him much.”

“I knew that; he would not have loved me so suddenly had I not been wholly unlike any woman he had known.”

“His character is individual.”