CHAPTER III

Returning to the room where he had sat alone before supper, he
sank heavily into the armchair he had previously occupied. The
window was still open, and the scent of roses stole in with every
breath of air,--a few stars sparkled in the sky, and a faint line
of silver in the east showed where the moon would shortly rise. He
looked out in dreamy silence, and for some minutes seemed too much
absorbed in thought to notice the presence of Innocent, who had
seated herself at a small table near him, on which she had set a
lit candle, and was quietly sewing. She had forgotten that she
still wore the wreath of wild roses,--the fragile flowers were
drooping and dying in her hair, and as she bent over her work and
the candlelight illumined her delicate profile, there was
something almost sculptural in the shape of the leaves as they
encircled her brow, making her look like a young Greek nymph or
goddess brought to life out of the poetic dreams of the elder
world. She was troubled and anxious, but she tried not to let this
seem apparent. She knew from her life's experience of his ways and
whims that it was best to wait till the old man chose to speak,
rather than urge him into talk before he was ready or willing. She
glanced up from her sewing now and again and saw that he looked
very pale and worn, and she felt that he suffered. Her tender
young heart ached with longing to comfort him, yet she knew not
what she should say. So she sat quiet, as full of loving thoughts
as a Madonna lily may be full of the dew of Heaven, yet mute as