Dreaming of her child, whose pure image hovered in the mirage hope wove before her—­

“She seemed all earthly matters to forget,
Of all tormenting lines her face was clear,
Her wide brown eyes upon the goal were set,
Calm and unmoved as though no foe were near.”

CHAPTER XXX.

Since the memorable day of Regina’s visit to Central Park many weeks had elapsed, and one wild stormy evening in March she sat at the library table writing her translation of a portion of “Egmont.”

The storm—­now of sleet, now of snow—­darkened the air, and the globes of the chandelier representing Pompeian lamps were lighted above the oval table, shedding a bright yet mellow glow over the warm quiet room.

Upon a bronze console stood a terra-cotta jar containing a white azalea in full bloom, and the fragrance of the flowers breathed like a benediction on the atmosphere; while in the tall glass beneath Mrs. Orme’s portrait two half-blown snowy camellias nestled amid a fringe of geranium leaves.

Close to the fire, with her feet upon a Persian patterned cushion, Olga reclined in the luxurious easy chair that belonged to Mr. Palma’s writing desk, and open on her lap lay a volume entitled “The Service of the Poor.”  The former brilliancy of her complexion seemed to have forsaken her for ever, banished by a settled sallowness; and she looked thin, feeble, dejected, passing her fingers abstractedly through the short curling ruddy hair that clustered around her forehead and upon her neck.

As if weary of the thoughts suggested by her book, she turned and looked at the figure writing under the chandelier, and by degrees she realized the change in the countenance, which three months before had been pure, serene, and bright as a moonbeam.

The keen and prolonged anguish which Regina had endured left its shadow, faint, vague, but unmistakable; and in the eyes lay gloom, and around the mouth patient yet melancholy lines, which hinted of a bitter struggle in which the calm-hearted girl died, and the wiser, sadder woman was born.

Her grief had been silent but deep for the loss of the dear friend who symbolized for her all that was noble, heroic, and godly in human nature; and her suffering was not assuaged by letters from Mrs. Lindsay, furnishing the sorrowful details of the last illness of the minister, and the dying words of tender devotion to the young girl whom he believed his betrothed bride.

Over these harrowing letters she had wept long and bitterly, accusing herself continually of her unworthiness in allowing another image to usurp the throne where the missionary should have reigned supreme; and the only consolation afforded was in the reflection that Douglass had died believing her faithful, happy in the perfect trust reposed in her.  He had been buried on a sunny slope of the cemetery not far from the blue waves of the Pacific, and his mother remained in San Francisco with her sister, in whose house Mr. Lindsay had quietly breathed his life away, dying as he had lived, full of hope in Christ and trust in God.