expression might heap further assault upon her; so she sat quietly
regarding a favorite print that hung over the mantelshelf. After a
few moments silence, Evelyn drew herself up haughtily and arose to
go, when Marguerite felt a rising sensation in her throat, and
instantly rushed into her sister's arms. "Eve, dearest, I know you
are disappointed in not going out this evening, and I am sorry; can
you not believe me?"

Evelyn Verne was a beauty--beautiful as an houri, imperial as
Cleopatra, but merciless as a De Medicis. She was a true woman of
the world; self was the only shrine at which she worshipped; and if
indeed she could feel a momentary sympathetic chord, surely
Marguerite was the cause. The piercing black eyes send forth a flash
that is electrifying, then fix themselves upon her companion. She is
perhaps struggling between pride and duty, and it costs her a heavy
sacrifice. As she gazes upon that sweet, soulful face she is almost
tempted to become a nobler and better being; but the world has too
heavy a hold upon her, and slightly pressing a kiss upon
Marguerite's cheek, she takes leave without saying another word. As
the latter listens to the rustle of the silken train through the
spacious hall and stairway, she heaves a deep sigh, and once more
seats herself beside her desk. On the pages of the little book she
pens thoughts worthy of such a soul, and worthy of the memorable
eve--worthy of the dying moments of the year which had been her
friend, her comforter and her hope. She could look back without many
regrets. The hours had not been misspent, and she could say: "Old
Year, I used you well. Now that you are nearly gone I will not
regret, but try, with God's help, to welcome in your child."

Marguerite sat thus while the clock struck twelve, when she buried