The old woman went away after folding the down coverlet carefully
over her darling's feet, and Helen seemed to go to sleep.

For a time the room was very still; the fire burned softly on the
marble hearth, the sun shone warmly on velvet carpet and rich
hangings, the delicate breath of flowers blew in through the
halt-open door that led to a gay little conservatory, and nothing
but the roll of a distant carriage broke the silence now and then.

Christie's eyes soon wandered from her book to the lovely face and
motionless figure on the couch. Just opposite, in a recess, hung the
portrait of a young and handsome man, and below it stood a vase of
flowers, a graceful Roman lamp, and several little relics, as if it
were the shrine where some dead love was mourned and worshipped
still.

As she looked from the living face, so pale and so pathetic in its
quietude, to the painted one so full of color, strength, and
happiness, her heart ached for poor Helen, and her eyes were wet
with tears of pity. A sudden movement on the couch gave her no time
to hide them, and as she hastily looked down upon her book a
treacherous drop fell glittering on the page.

"What have you there so interesting?" asked Helen, in that softly
imperious tone of hers.

"Don Quixote," answered Christie, too much abashed to have her wits
about her.