“Trite remarks cannot have serious causes.”

“Account for the tragic phase, then.”

“I’m in no mood for tragedy, and commonplace does not need explanation.”

“What kind of mood are you in to-night, Madge?  You puzzle me;” and he looked directly into her eyes.  At the moment she was facing a window, and a flash of strange brilliancy made every feature luminous.  It seemed to him that he saw her very soul, the spirit she might become, for it is hard to imagine existence without form—­form that is in harmony with character.  The crash that followed was so terrific that they paused and stood confronting each other.  The music ceased; cries of terror resounded; but the momentary transfiguration of the girl before him had been so strange and so impressive that Graydon forgot all else, and still gazed at her with something like awe in his face.  Her lip trembled, for the nervous tension was growing too severe.  “Why do you look at me so?” she faltered.  “What has happened?  Is there danger?”

“What has happened, Madge, that I cannot understand you?  The electric gleam made you look like an angel of light.  Your face seemed light itself.  Are you so true and good, Madge, that such vivid radiance brings out no stain or fear?  What is it that makes you unlike others?” Instinctively he looked toward Miss Wildmere.  Her face was buried in her hands, and Mr. Arnault was bending over her with reassuring words.

Madge felt her self-control departing.  “Mary is afraid in a thunderstorm,” she said, in a low tone.  “I’ll go to her.  She does not find me so puzzling;” and she hastened away, yet not so swiftly but that he saw her quivering lip and look of trouble.

He took a few impulsive steps in pursuit, then hesitated and walked irresolutely down a hallway, that he might have a chance for further thought.  The alarm and confusion were so great that the little episode had been unnoted.  It had made an impression on Graydon, however, that he could not shake off readily.

Emotion, if forced, has little power except to repel, but even a glimpse of deep, suppressed feeling haunts the memory, especially if its cause is half in mystery.

Madge had set her heart on one thing, had worked long and patiently for its attainment, had hoped and prayed for it, and within the last few hours was feeling the bitterness of defeat.  The event she so dreaded seemed inevitable, even if it had not already occurred.  The expression on Graydon’s face when she had first met him after his long ramble with Miss Wildmere had been that of a tranquilly happy lover, whose heart was at rest in glad certainty.  Why should he not have spoken? what greater encouragement could he ask than the favor she herself had seen?  During his long absence another girl had apparently been waiting for him also, “But not working for him,” she sighed, “and keeping herself aloof from all and everything that would render her less worthy.  While I sought to train heart, body, and soul to be a fit bride, she has dallied with every admirer she met, and now wins him without one hour of self-denial or effort.  It is more bitter than death to me.  It is cruelty to him, for that selfish girl will never make him happy.  Even after he marries her he will be only one among many, and the ballroom glare will be more to her than the light of her own hearth.”