Five minutes passed, and nothing living appeared but the birds hopping
about the grass.

In less than a minute more Blanche's quick ear caught the faint sound of
a woman's dress brushing over the lawn. She ran to the nearest window,
looked out, and clapped her hands with a cry of delight. There was
the well-known figure, rapidly approaching her! Anne was true to their
friendship--Anne had kept her engagement at last!

Blanche hurried out, and drew her into the library in triumph. "This
makes amends, love for every thing! You answer my letter in the best of
all ways--you bring me your own dear self."

She placed Anne in a chair, and, lifting her veil, saw her plainly in
the brilliant mid-day light.

The change in the whole woman was nothing less than dreadful to the
loving eyes that rested on her. She looked years older than her real
age. There was a dull calm in her face, a stagnant, stupefied submission
to any thing, pitiable to see. Three days and nights of solitude and
grief, three days and nights of unresting and unpartaken suspense, had
crushed that sensitive nature, had frozen that warm heart. The animating
spirit was gone--the mere shell of the woman lived and moved, a mockery
of her former self.

"Oh, Anne! Anne! What _can_ have happened to you? Are you frightened?
There's not the least fear of any body disturbing us. They are all at
luncheon, and the servants are at dinner. We have the room entirely to
ourselves. My darling! you look so faint and strange! Let me get you