Diane seated herself by an open window looking out on the garden. It was
a hot morning toward the end of June, and from the neighboring streets
came the dull rumble of Paris. Beyond the garden, through an opening,
she could see a procession of carriages--probably a wedding on its way
to Sainte-Clotilde. It was her first realizing glimpse of the outside
world since that gray morning when she had driven home alone, and the
very fact that it could be pursuing its round indifferent to her
calamity impelled her to turn her gaze away.

It was then that she had time to note the changes wrought in Mrs.
Eveleth; and it was like finding winter where she expected no more than
the first genial touch of autumn. The softnesses of lingering youth had
disappeared, stricken out by the hard, straight lines of gravity. Never
having known her mother-in-law as other than a woman of fashion, Diane
was awed by this dignified, sorrowing matron, who carried the sword of
motherhood in her heart.

It was a long time before Mrs. Eveleth laid her pencil down and raised
her head. For a few minutes neither had the power of words, but it was
Diane who spoke at last.

"I can understand," she faltered, "that you don't want to see me; but
I've come to tell you that I'm going away."

"You're going away? Where?"

The words were spoken gently and as if in some absence of mind. As a
matter of fact, Mrs. Eveleth was scarcely thinking of Diane's words--she
was so intent on the poor little, tear-worn face before her. She had
always known that Diane's attractions were those of coloring and