and fro in the soft brightness of the moonlight on the lawn.
Sorrow and suspense have set their mark on the lady. Not rivals
only, but friends who formerly admired her, agree now that she
looks worn and aged. The more merciful judgment of others
remarks, with equal truth, that her eyes, her hair, her simple
grace and grandeur of movement have lost but little of their
olden charms. The truth lies, as usual, between the two extremes.
In spite of sorrow and suffering, Mrs. Crayford is the beautiful
Mrs. Crayford still.

The delicious silence of the hour is softly disturbed by the
voice of the younger lady in the garden.

"Go to the piano, Lucy. It is a night for music. Play something
that is worthy of the night."

Mrs. Crayford looks round at the clock on the mantelpiece.

"My dear Clara, it is past twelve! Remember what the doctor told
you. You ought to have been in bed an hour ago."

"Half an hour, Lucy--give me half an hour more! Look at the
moonlight on the sea. Is it possible to go to bed on such a night
as this? Play something, Lucy--something spiritual and divine."

Earnestly pleading with her friend, Clara advances toward the
window. She too has suffered under the wasting influences of
suspense. Her face has lost its youthful freshness; no delicate
flush of color rises on it when she speaks. The soft gray eyes
which won Frank's heart in the by-gone time are sadly altered