Lawrence Newt was standing near the window in the library, looking up at the portrait that hung there, and deep into the soft, dark eyes.  He had a trustful, candid air, as if he were seeking from it a benediction or consolation.  As the long sunset light swept across the room, and touched tenderly the tender girl’s face of the portrait, it seemed to him to smile tranquilly and trustingly, as if it understood and answered his confidence, and a deep peace fell upon his heart.

And high above, from her window that looked westward—­with a clearer, softer gaze, as if Time had cleared and softened the doubts and obscurities of life—­Mrs. Simcoe’s face was turned to the setting sun.

Behind the distant dark-blue hills the June sun set—­set upon three hearts, at least, that Time and Life had taught and tempered—­upon three hearts that were brought together then and there, not altogether understanding each other, but ready and willing to understand.  As it darkened within the library and the picture was hidden, Lawrence Newt stood at the window and looked upon the lawn where Hope was sitting.  He heard a murmuring voice above him, and in the clear, silent air Hope heard it too.  It was only a murmur mingling with the whisper of the pine-trees.  But Hope knew what it was, though she could not hear the words.  And yet the words were heard: 

“I hold Thee with a trembling hand,
  And will not let Thee go;
Till steadfastly by faith I stand,
  And all Thy goodness know.”

CHAPTER XLIX.

A SELECT PARTY.

On a pleasant evening in the same month of June Mr. Abel Newt entertained a few friends at supper.  The same June air, with less fragrance, perhaps, blew in at the open windows, which looked outside upon nothing but the street and the house walls opposite, but inside upon luxury and ease.

It mattered little what was outside, for heavy muslin curtains hung over the windows; and the light, the beauty, the revelry, were all within.

The boyish look was entirely gone now from the face of the lord of the feast.  It was even a little sallow in hue and satiated in expression.  There was occasionally that hard, black look in his eyes which those who had seen his sister Fanny intimately had often remarked in her—­a look with which Alfred Dinks, for instance, was familiar.  But the companions of his revels were not shrewd of vision.  It was not Herbert Octoyne, nor Corlaer Van Boozenberg, nor Bowdoin Beacon, nor Sligo Moultrie, nor any other of his set, who especially remarked his expression; it was, oddly enough, Miss Grace Plumer, of New Orleans.

She sat there in the pretty, luxurious rooms, prettier and more luxurious than they.  For, at the special solicitation of Mr. Abel Newt, Mrs. Plumer had consented to accept an invitation to a little supper at his rooms—­very small and very select; Mrs. Newt, of course, to be present.