Standing beside the table, her hands folded before her, and her head slightly drooped, she fell into a brief reverie, wondering how she could endure to live without the society of this beloved mother, which imparted such a daily charm to her own existence, and as she reflected on the past an expression of quiet sadness stole over her countenance, and into—­

“The eyes of passionless, peaceful blue
Like twilight which faint stars gaze through.”

In the doorway fronting the east, Mr. Palma had stood for some seconds unobserved, studying the pretty room and its fair young queen.

In honour of her mother’s birthday, she wore a white India muslin, with a blue sash girding her slender waist, and only a knot of blue ribbon at her throat, where the soft lace was gathered.  Her silky hair rolled in a heavy coil low at the back of her head, and was secured by a gold comb; and close to one small ear she had fastened a cluster of snowy velvet pansies, which contrasted daintily with the glossy blackness of her hair.

To the man who had crossed the ocean solely to feast his hungry eyes upon that delicate cameo face, it seemed as pure as an angel’s.  Although continual heart-ache, and patient uncomplaining need of something that she knew and felt God had removed for ever beyond her reach, had worn the cheek to a thinner oval, and left darker shadows in her calm eyes, Mr. Palma who had so long and carefully scrutinized her features, acknowledged now, that indeed—­

“She grew fairer than her peers;
Still her gentle forehead wears
Holy lights of infant years.”

Nearly eight years before, as he watched her asleep in the railway car, he had wondered whether it were possible that she could carry her tender loving heart, straightforward white soul, and saintly young face untarnished and unbruised into the checkered and feverish realm of womanhood?

To-day she stood as fair and pure as in her early childhood, a gentle image of renunciation, “all unspotted from the world,” whose withering breath he had so dreaded for his flower.

Watching her, a sudden splendour of hope lighted his fine eyes, and a glow of intense happiness fired his usually pale cheek.

Slowly she turned away from the table, and against the glory of the sunlight streaming through the open door, she saw her guardian’s tall figure outlined.

Was it a mere blessed vision, born of her recent reverie on the terrace; or had he died, and his spirit, reading the secret of her soul, had mercifully flown to comfort her by one farewell appearance?

He opened his arms and his whole face was radiant with passionate and tender love.  She did not move, but her eyes gazed into his, like one in a happy dream, who fears to awake.

He came swiftly forward, and holding out his arms, exclaimed in a voice that trembled with the excess of his joy: 

“My Lily!  My darling!”