Cousin Sally was disappointed.  She did not find the relative, with whom so many years of her life had been spent in sweet intercourse, as she had hoped to find her.  The girlish warmth of feelings had given place to a cold worldliness that repelled instead of attracting her.  She had loved, and suffered much; had passed through many trials, and entered through many opening doors into new experiences, during the years since their ways parted.  And she had come to this old, dear friend, yearning for that heart intercourse,—­that reading together of some of the pages of their books of life,—­which she felt almost as a necessity.  What interest had she for the mere externals of Mary’s life?  None!  None!  And the constant reference thereto, by her cousin, seemed like a desecration.  Careful and troubled about the little things of life, she found the dear old friend of her girlish days, to whom she had come hopefully, as to one who could comprehend, as in earlier years, the feelings, thoughts, and aspirations which had grown stronger, deeper, and of wider range.

Alas!  Alas!  How was the fine gold dimmed in her eyes!

“Dear Mary!” she said to her cousin, on the morning of the day that was, to end her visit,—­they were sitting, together in the little parlor, and Mrs. Cartwright had referred, for the fortieth time, to the unshaded windows, and declared herself mortified to death at the appearance of things,—­“Dear Mary!  It was to see you, not your furniture, that I came.  To look into your heart and feel it beating against mine as of old; not to pry, curiously, into your ways of living, nor to compare your house-furnishing with my own.  But for your constant reference to these things, I should not have noticed, particularly, how your house was attired; and if asked about them, could only have answered, ‘She’s living very nicely.’  Forgive me for this plain speech, dear cousin.  I did not mean to give utterance to such language; but the words are spoken now, and cannot be recalled.”

Mrs. Cartwright, if not really offended, was mortified and rebuked and these states of feeling united with pride, served to give coldness to her exterior.  She tried to be cordial in manner towards her cousin; to seem as if she had not felt her words; but this was impossible, for she had felt them too deeply.  She saw that the cherished friend and companion of her girlhood was disappointed in her; that she had come to look into her heart, and not into the attiring of her home; and was going away with diminished affection.  After years of divergence, their paths had touched; and, separating once more, she felt that they would never run parallel again.

A few hours later, cousin Sally gave her a parting kiss.  How different in warmth to the kiss of meeting!  Very sad, very dissatisfied with herself,—­very unhappy did Mrs. Cartwright feel, as she sat musing alone after her relative had departed.  She was conscious of having lost a friend forever, because she had not risen to the higher level to which that friend had attained—­not in external, but in the true internal life.