CHAPTER XV.

  “——­I might not this believe
  Without the sensible and true avouch
  Of mine own eyes.”

  SHAKSPEARE.

Twilight had fallen slowly, for the evening was heavy and wet, and dark masses of cloud driven by the northern blasts sailed gloomily overhead.  Nature wore a dreary aspect, and one involuntarily turned inward for amusement.  A bright light gleamed from the window of Florence Hamilton’s humble home, and her little dining-room seemed by contrast extremely cheerful; yet the hearts of its inmates were more in accordance with the gloom which reigned without.  Aunt Lizzy, growing somewhat infirm of late, had retired earlier than usual.  Florence had been sewing all the afternoon, but now lay with closed eyes on the couch, her hands clasped over her head.  Mary sat near the table holding an open volume, but her thoughts had evidently wandered far away; for her gaze was fixed abstractedly on the fire which blazed and crackled at her feet.  The girl’s countenance was an interesting study, as she sat rapt in her saddened thoughts.  A careworn expression rested upon her face, as though some weighty responsibility too soon had fallen on one so frail.  The cheeks were very pale, and now and then across the lips there came a quiver, as though she struggled inwardly, and fain would give no outward show of grief.  In truth, an almost spiritual expression had come over her features; the impress of some deep and hidden sorrow, nobly borne, though chasing the rosy hue from her cheeks.  Sadder grew the look, and some acute pain wrinkled her brow as she threw aside the book, and covered her face with her hands; while a heavy, yet smothered sigh, struggled forth, as if striving to relieve the aching heart.

The door opened noiselessly, and a dark shrouded form glided with soft steps to the chair, and laid a heavy hand on her shoulder.  Mary raised her head, and starting up, gazed inquiringly at the muffled face, while the intruder pointed to the motionless form of Florence, and laid a finger on her lip.  Then beckoning Mary to follow, she receded, with stealthy tread, to the door, which was softly closed, and walked hurriedly on till she reached a large rose-tree, which shaded the window.  Mary shivered as the piercing wind swept over her, and strove in vain to suppress a fit of coughing.  There was a moment’s silence.

“You did not know me?”

Mary started.  “I did not, till you spoke; but, Inez, what brings you out on such a night?”

Inez took off the mantilla which had so effectually concealed her features, and threw it round the frail, drooping form before her.

“No, no, Inez, you will take cold;” and Mary tendered it back.

It was tossed off contemptuously, and mingled with a bitter laugh came the reply—­“I am not cold, Marinita, nor ever shall be but once again.  I am burning with an inward fire that will not be quenched”