Anne had forborne going to bed, and waited for her return, longing to see
her spirit's face again before she slept; for this poor tender creature,
being denied all woman's loves and joys by Fate, who had made her as she
was, so lived in her sister's beauty and triumphs that 'twas as if in
some far-off way she shared them, and herself experienced through them
the joy of being a woman transcendently beautiful and transcendently
beloved. To-night she had spent her waiting hours in her closet and upon
her knees, praying with all humble adoration of the Being she approached.
She was wont to pray long and fervently each day, thanking Heaven for the
smallest things and the most common, and imploring continuance of the
mercy which bestowed them upon her poor unworthiness. For her sister her
prayers were offered up night and morning, and ofttimes in hours between,
and to-night she prayed not for herself at all, but for Clorinda and for
his Grace of Osmonde, that their love might be crowned with happiness,
and that no shadow might intervene to cloud its brightness, and the
tender rapture in her sister's softened look, which was to her a thing so
wonderful that she thought of it with reverence as a holy thing.

Her prayers being at length ended, she had risen from her knees and sat
down, taking a sacred book to read, a book of sermons such as 'twas her
simple habit to pore over with entire respect and child-like faith, and
being in the midst of her favourite homily, she heard the chariot's
returning wheels, and left her chair, surprised, because she had not yet
begun to expect the sound.

"'Tis my sister," she said, with a soft, sentimental smile. "Osmonde not
being among the guests, she hath no pleasure in mingling with them."

She went below to the room her ladyship usually went to first on her