“You are still content in your hermitage?” said Eleanor, seating herself and controlling her voice to its wonted tone.

“More and more.  I have been reading since six o’clock this morning, and never felt so quiet in mind.”

Her utterance proved it; she spoke in a low, sweet voice, its music once more untroubled.  But in looking at Eleanor, she became aware of veiled trouble on her countenance.

“Have you come only to see me?  Or is there something—?”

Eleanor broke the news to her.  And as she spoke, the beautiful face lost its calm of contemplation, grew pain-shadowed, stricken with pangs of sorrow.  Cecily turned away and wept—­wept for the past, which in these moments had lived again and again perished.

It seemed to Spence that his wife mourned unreasonably.  A week or more had passed, and yet he chanced to find her with tears in her eyes.

“I have still so much of the old Eve in me, replied Eleanor.  “I am heavy-hearted, not for him, but for Cecily’s dead love.  We all have a secret desire to believe love imperishable.”

“An amiable sentiment; but it is better to accept the truth.”

“True only in some cases.”

“In many,” said Spence, with a smile.  “First love is fool’s paradise.  But console yourself out of Boccaccio.  ’Bocca baciata non perde ventura; anzi rinnuova, come fa la luna.’”

THE END