sonnets that were her love-letters were known to her by heart, but she liked to feel them in her hands while her gaze went down the river that had borne his ship out to sea.  Where was now the ship?  Like a white sea-bird her fancy followed it by day and by night, now here, now there, through storm and sunshine.  It was of the dignity of her nature that she could look steadfastly upon the vision of it in storm or in battle.  There were times when she was sure that it was in danger, when her every breath was a prayer, and there were times, as on this soft autumnal day, when her spirit drowsed in a languor of content, a sweet assurance of all love, all life to come.  His words lay beneath her hand and in her heart; she pressed her brow against the glass, and as from a watch-tower looked out upon the earth, a fenced garden, and the sea a sure path and Time a strong ally speeding her lover’s approach.  For a long time she knelt thus, lapped in happy dreams; then the door opened and in came her chamber-fellow.  “Damaris!” she said, and again, “Oh, Damaris, Damaris!”

Damaris arose from the window-seat and laid her love-letters away.  “In trouble again, Cecily?” she asked, and her voice was like a caress, for the girl was younger than herself.  “I know thy ‘Oh, Damaris, Damaris!’” She closed the cabinet, then turning, put her arm around her fellow maid.  “What is’t, sweeting?”

Cecily slipped to her knees, hiding her face in the other’s shimmering skirts.  “Thou’rt so dear, so good, and so proud....  As soon as I might I ran hither, for every moment I feared to see thee enter!  Thou wouldst have died hadst thou heard it there in the great antechamber, where they crowd and whisper and talk aloud—­and some, I know, are glad....  The ships, Damaris—­yesternight two of the ships came home.”

She spoke incoherently, with sobbing breath, but gradually the form to which she clung had grown rigid in her embrace.  “Two of the ships have come home,” repeated Damaris.  “Which came not home?”

“The Cygnet and the Star.”

The maid of honor, unclasping the girl’s hands, glided from her reach.  “Let me go, good Cis!  Why, how stifling is the day!” She put her hand to her ruff, as though to loosen it, but the hand dropped again to her side.  The silken coverlet upon the bed was awry; she went to it and laid it smooth with unhurried touch.  From a bowl of late flowers crimson petals had fallen upon the table; she gathered them up, and going to the casement, gave them, one by one, to the winds outside.

“Damaris, Damaris, Damaris!” cried the frightened girl.

“Ay, I have heard him call me that,” answered the other.  “Sometimes Damaris, sometimes Dione.  When did he die?”

“Oh, I bring no news of his death!” exclaimed Cecily.  “Sir Mortimer Ferne is here—­in London.”

Damaris, swaying forward, caught at a heavy settle, sank to her knee, and laid her brow against the wood.  Cecily, gazing down upon her, saw her cheek glow pure carnation, saw the quivering of the long eyelashes and the happy trembling of the lip.  Presently the wave of color fled; she unclosed her eyes, raised her head.  “But there was something, was there not, to be borne?...  God forgive me, I had forgot that I have a brother!”