friend.  Just to try the strength of my own electric force, I whispered the name and looked up.  There, on a wide slanting ray of sunlight that fell directly across the altar was the angelic face I well remembered!—­the delicate hands holding the semblance of a harp in air!  It was but for an instant I saw it—­one brief breathing-space in which its smile mingled with the sunbeams and then it vanished.  But I knew I was not forgotten, and the deep satisfaction of my soul poured itself in unspoken praise on the flood of the “Sanctus!  Sanctus!” that just then rolled triumphantly through the aisles of Notre Dame.  Zara was absorbed in silent prayer throughout the Mass; but at its conclusion, when we came out of the cathedral, she was unusually gay and elate.  She conversed vivaciously with me concerning the social merits and accomplishments of the people we were going to visit; while the brisk walk through the frosty air brightened her eyes and cheeks into warmer lustre, so that on our arrival at the Grand Hotel she looked to my fancy even lovelier than usual.

Mrs. Everard did not keep us waiting long in the private salon to which we were shown.  She fluttered down, arrayed in a wonderful “art” gown of terra-cotta and pale blue hues cunningly intermixed, and proceeded to hug me with demonstrative fervour.  Then she held me a little distance off, and examined me attentively.

“Do you know,” she said, “you are simply in lovely condition!  I never would have believed it.  You are actually as plump and pink as a peach.  And you are the same creature that wailed and trembled, and had palpitations and headaches and stupors!  Your doctor must be a perfect magician.  I think I must consult him, for I am sure I don’t look half as well as you do.”

And indeed she did not.  I thought she had a tired, dragged appearance, but I would not say so.  I knew her well, and I was perfectly aware that though she was fascinating and elegant in every way, her life was too much engrossed in trifles ever to yield her healthy satisfaction.

After responding warmly to her affectionate greeting, I said: 

“Amy, you must allow me to introduce the sister of my doctor to you.  Madame Zara Casimir—­Mrs. Everard.”

Zara, who had moved aside a little way out of delicacy, to avoid intruding on our meeting, now turned, and with her own radiant smile and exquisite grace, stretched out her little well-gloved hand.

“I am delighted to know you!” she said, in those sweet penetrating accents of hers which were like music.  “Your friend,” here indicating me by a slight yet tender gesture, “has also become mine; but I do not think we shall be jealous, shall we?”