heads to the broad sills. Within, the lighted candles showed furniture that
was perhaps a little faded and dim, though it had a slender, old-fashioned
grace which more than made amends for any beauty it had lost. There was
much old china, and on the walls were a few family portraits, of which
their owner was justly proud; and in the air there lingered a faint
fragrance of dried rose-leaves, delicate yet unconquerable. Even the full
tide of midsummer sweetness which flowed through the open windows could not
altogether overcome that subtle memory of summers long gone by.

The master of the house, with a face like a wrinkled waxen mask, sat in his
easy-chair reading the _Saturday Review_, and a lady very like him, only
with a little more color and fulness, was knitting close by. The light
shone on the old man's pale face and white hair, on the old lady's
silver-gray dress and flashing rings: the knitting-pins clicked, working up
the crimson wool, and the pages of the paper rustled with a pleasant
crispness as they were turned. By the window, where the candlelight faded
into the soft shadows, stood a young man apparently lost in thought. His
face, which was turned a little toward the garden, was a noteworthy one
with its straight forehead and clearly marked, level brows. His features
were good, and his clear olive complexion gave him something of a foreign
air. He had no beard, and his moustache was only a dark shadow on his upper
lip, so that his mouth stood revealed as one which indicated reserve,
though it was neither stern nor thin-lipped. Altogether, it was a pleasant
face.

A light step sauntering along the terrace, a low voice softly singing
"Drink to Me only with Thine Eyes," roused him from his reverie. He did not
move, but his mouth and eyes relaxed into a smile as a white figure came
out of the dusk exactly opposite his window, and singer and song stopped
together. "Oh, Percival! I didn't know you had come out of the