“If it couldn’t be Arthur—­and of course my heart was set on her marrying Arthur—­I suppose George is the one I should have chosen,” she said to Mrs. Peyton with tender melancholy as she turned her soft, clammy cheek, which was never warm even in summer, to be kissed.

There was nothing against George that she could advance even to Gabriella.  He was well born, for his mother had been a Randolph; he was comfortably rich (at least his father was); he was good-looking; he was almost arrogantly healthy—­yet because she was obliged to regret something, she found herself clinging fondly to the memory of Arthur.  “If it could only have been Arthur,” she repeated sadly, gazing through the French window of the drawing-room to the garden where beds of scarlet sage flaunted brilliantly in the sunshine.

“I hope and pray that dear Gabriella will be happy,” replied Mrs. Peyton, a beautiful old lady, with wonderful white hair under the widow’s ruching in her bonnet.  The exquisite simplicity of her soul was reflected in the rose-leaf delicacy of her skin, in her benignant and innocent smile, in the serene and joyous glance of her eyes.  Never in her life had she thought evil of any one, and she did not mean to begin on the verge of the grave, with the hope of a peaceful eternity before her.  If dear Gabriella had “discarded” dear Arthur, then she could only hope and pray that dear Gabriella would not live to regret it.

“She will be married at once, I suppose?” she said, and beamed as happily as if Gabriella had not disappointed the dearest hope of her heart.  “There is no need to wait, is there?”

“They have decided on the 17th of November.  I wanted you to know it first of all, Lydia, so I haven’t mentioned it to a soul except to Cousin Jimmy Wrenn.”

“You will live with dear Jane, will you not?  Poor child, what a blessing you will be to her.”

“No, I shall be with Jane only for a month or two until Gabriella and George have taken a house in New York.  She wouldn’t consent to be married so soon until I promised to live with them.  But how on earth shall I ever manage to go so far away, Lydia?  To think of being so far from Hollywood almost breaks my heart, and yet what can I do?”

Mrs. Peyton’s loving gaze enfolded not only her visitor, but the house and the dreamy garden where frost was already blighting the flowers.

“I understand your feeling, of course, Fanny,” she said, “but you must think of Gabriella.  How different it will be for her if her mother is with her.  I shall miss you every minute, but for the sake of that splendid child of yours, I must not allow myself to be sorry.”

If Mrs. Carr’s features could have lost the fixed impression of a lifetime, they would have appeared almost cheerful while her old friend held her hand and gazed benignly upon her; but so relaxed had the muscles of her face become that, even when her spirits rose, her countenance did not alter, and the flicker of light in her smile only served to illumine its profound melancholy.