the novel she had contemptuously thrown aside, only to let it fall again
in utter weariness. For a moment her feminine curiosity was excited
by the discovery of an old book, in whose blank leaves were pressed a
variety of flowers and woodland grasses. As she could not conceive
that these had been kept for any but a sentimental purpose, she was
disappointed to find that underneath each was a sentence in an unknown
tongue, that even to her untutored eye did not appear to be the language
of passion. Finally she rearranged the couch of skins and blankets, and,
imparting to it in three clever shakes an entirely different character,
lay down to pursue her reveries. But nature asserted herself, and ere
she knew it she was asleep.

So intense and prolonged had been her previous excitement that, the
tension once relieved, she passed into a slumber of exhaustion so deep
that she seemed scarce to breathe. High noon succeeded morning, the
central shaft received a single ray of upper sunlight, the afternoon
came and went, the shadows gathered below, the sunset fires began to eat
their way through the groined roof, and she still slept. She slept even
when the bark hangings of the chamber were put aside, and the young man
reentered.

He laid down a bundle he was carrying and softly approached the sleeper.
For a moment he was startled from his indifference; she lay so still and
motionless. But this was not all that struck him; the face before him
was no longer the passionate, haggard visage that confronted him that
morning; the feverish air, the burning color, the strained muscles of
mouth and brow, and the staring eyes were gone; wiped away, perhaps, by
the tears that still left their traces on cheek and dark eyelash. It
was the face of a handsome woman of thirty, with even a suggestion of
softness in the contour of the cheek and arching of her upper lip, no