avoided men almost instinctively; and even if she had cared to make friends among them, her life was so narrow that it would have been almost impossible for her to do so.  When she was not too tired, she still read as widely as she could; but at thirty-seven books had become but a poor substitute for the more robust human activities.  As the theatres and the lecture rooms offered the only opportunities of relaxation and amusement, she went twice a week, accompanied by the little seamstress, who appeared to thrive on self-sacrifice, to see a play that was noticed in the papers, or to listen to explanatory descriptions of the scenery of South America or the grievances of the oppressed natives of Asia.

“You mustn’t let yourself mope, honey,” urged Miss Polly, one snowy morning in January, when Gabriella was putting on a fur coat, cut in the latest fashion, which had been left on her hands after the mid-winter sales.  “The children had to go sooner or later, and it’s just as well it happened while you are young enough to get over it.  A boy never stays at home anyway, and you know I always told you Fanny was the sort to marry before she is out of her teens.”

“Oh, I’m not moping, but of course I can’t help missing them.  The house seems so empty.”

“It’s obliged to be empty with only us two women in it.  I declare I got such a creepy feelin’ about burglars last night that I kept wishin’ Mr. O’Hara would hurry up and come home.  Mrs. Squires says she was expectin’ him all last week, but he didn’t turn up, so she is kind of lookin’ for him to-day.”

“Is she?” Gabriella’s voice was charged with sincere thankfulness.  Merely to know that there was a man on the first floor afforded a sense of security; and an occasional meeting with him would make, she was aware, a trivial diversion from the monotony of her existence.  The loneliness of the winter had driven her like a storm-swept bird back to the enduring refuge of her Dream; but, after all, the flesh and blood presence of O’Hara could not seriously interfere with the tender and pensive visions her memory spun of the past.  Every morning, standing beside her window and gazing on the bleak street and the bare elm boughs, she thought of Arthur and of her first love, with a pious and reverent mind—­for they occupied in her day the hour and mood which her mother, belonging to a more orthodox generation, piously dedicated to “Daily Strength for Daily Need.”  But never for an instant would it have occurred to the granddaughter of that sanctified snob, Bartholomew Berkeley, who despised the lower orders and fraternized with the Deity in his pulpit every Sabbath, that the red-blooded and boisterous O’Hara—­the man of force and slang—­could by any accident usurp the sacred shrine where the consecrated relics of her first love reposed.  Before the whirlwind of O’Hara’s energy, she would congratulate herself that her Arthur, with the milder fluid of the Peytons in his veins, would never allow himself to be carried away by his impulses.