fern, formed a becoming finish to my simple costume.  As I arrayed myself, and looked at my own reflection in the long mirror, I smiled out of sheer gratitude.  For health, joyous and vigorous, sparkled in my eyes, glowed on my cheeks, tinted my lips, and rounded my figure.  The face that looked back at me from the glass was a perfectly happy one, ready to dimple into glad mirth or bright laughter.  No shadow of pain or care remained upon it to remind me of past suffering, and I murmured half aloud:  “Thank God!”

“Amen!” said a soft voice, and, turning round, I saw Zara.

But how shall I describe her?  No words can adequately paint the glorious beauty in which, that night, she seemed to move as in an atmosphere of her own creating.  She wore a clinging robe of the richest, softest white satin, caught in at the waist by a zone of pearls—­pearls which, from their size and purity, must have been priceless.  Her beautiful neck and arms were bare, and twelve rows of pearls were clasped round her slender throat, supporting in their centre the electric stone, which shone with a soft, subdued radiance, like the light of the young moon.  Her rich, dark hair was arranged in its usual fashion—­that is, hanging down in one thick plait, which on this occasion was braided in and out with small pearls.  On her bosom she wore a magnificent cluster of natural orange-blossoms; and of these, while I gazed admiringly at her, I first spoke: 

“You look like a bride, Zara!  You have all the outward signs of one —­white satin, pearls, and orange-blossoms!”

She smiled.

“They are the first cluster that has come out in our conservatory,” she said; “and I could not resist them.  As to the pearls, they belonged to my mother, and are my favourite ornaments; and white satin is now no longer exclusively for brides.  How soft and pretty that Indian crepe is!  Your toilette is charming, and suits you to perfection.  Are you quite ready?”

“Quite,” I answered.

She hesitated and sighed.  Then she raised her lovely eyes with a sort of wistful tenderness.

“Before we go down I should like you to kiss me once,” she said.

I embraced her fondly, and our lips met with a lingering sisterly caress.

“You will never forget me, will you?” she asked almost anxiously; “never cease to think of me kindly?”

“How fanciful you are to-night, Zara dear!” I said.  “As if I could forget you!  I shall always think of you as the loveliest and sweetest woman in the world.”

“And when I am out of the world—­what then?” she pursued.

Remembering her spiritual sympathies, I answered at once: 

“Even then I shall know you to be one of the fairest of the angels.  So you see, Zara darling, I shall always love you.”

“I think you will,” she said meditatively; “you are one of us.  But come!  I hear voices downstairs.  I think our expected guests have arrived, and we must be in the drawing-room to receive them.  Good-bye, little friend!” And she again kissed me.