“Well, very possibly you were right.  At any rate, you have the consolation of knowing that it’s too late to help it now.”

“Yes, it’s too late,” said Isabel; and her thoughts went back to her meeting with the young girl whom she had liked so much, and whose after history had interested her so painfully.  It seemed to her a hard world that could come to nothing better than that for the girl whom she had seen in her first glimpse of it that night.  Where was she now?  What had become of her?  If she had married that man, would she have been any happier?  Marriage was not the poetic dream of perfect union that a girl imagines it; she herself had found that out.  It was a state of trial, of probation; it was an ordeal, not an ecstasy.  If she and Basil had broken each other’s hearts and parted, would not the fragments of their lives have been on a much finer, much higher plane?  Had not the commonplace, every-day experiences of marriage vulgarized them both?  To be sure, there were the children; but if they had never had the children, she would never have missed them; and if Basil had, for example, died just before they were married—­She started from this wicked reverie, and ran towards her husband, whose broad, honest back, with no visible neck or shirt-collar, was turned towards her, as he stood, with his head thrown up, studying a time-table on the wall; she passed her arm convulsively through his, and pulled him away.

“It’s time to be getting our bags out to the train, Basil!  Come, Bella!  Tom, we’re going!”

The children reluctantly turned from the newsman’s trumpery, and they all went out to the track, and took seats on the benches under the colonnade.  While they waited; the train for Buffalo drew in, and they remained watching it till it started.  In the last car that passed them, when it was fairly under way, a face looked full at Isabel from one of the windows.  In that moment of astonishment she forgot to observe whether it was sad or glad; she only saw, or believed she saw, the light of recognition dawn into its eyes, and then it was gone.

“Basil!” she cried, “stop the train!  That was Kitty Ellison!”

“Oh no, it wasn’t,” said Basil, easily.  “It looked like her; but it looked at least ten years older.”

“Why, of course it was!  We’re all ten years older,” returned his wife in such indignation at his stupidity that she neglected to insist upon his stopping the train, which was rapidly diminishing in the perspective.

He declared it was only a fancied resemblance; she contended that this was in the neighborhood of Eriecreek, and it must be Kitty; and thus one of their most inveterate disagreements began.

Their own train drew into the depot, and they disputed upon the fact in question till they entered on the passage of the Suspension Bridge.  Then Basil rose and called the children to his side.  On the left hand, far up the river, the great Fall shows, with its mists at its foot and its rainbow on its brow, as silent and still as if it were vastly painted there; and below the bridge on the right, leap the Rapids in the narrow gorge, like seas on a rocky shore.  “Look on both sides, now,” he said to the children.  “Isabel you must see this!”