“Humph!” was her immediate exclamation, as her eye rested upon the conspicuous offering in the centre of the apartment. But instantly remembering herself, advanced with a cheerful good morning, which however did not prevent her eyes from wandering with no small satisfaction towards this fresh evidence of Mr. Ensign’s assiduous regard.
“Paula is remembered by others than ourselves,” remarked Mr. Sylvester, probably observing her glance.
“Yes; she has a very attentive suitor in Mr. Ensign,” returned Miss Belinda shortly. “A pleasant appearing young man,” she ejaculated next moment; “worthy in many respects of success, I should say.”
“Has he—do you mean to say that he has visited you in Grotewell?” asked Mr. Sylvester, his eye upon the paper in his hand.
“Certainly; a few more interviews will settle it.”
The paper rustled in Mr. Sylvester’s grasp, but his voice was composed if not formal, as he observed, “She regards his attentions then with favor?”
“She wears his flowers in her bosom, and brightens like a flower herself when he is seen to approach. If allowed to go her way unhindered, I have but little doubt as to how it will end. Mr. Ensign is not handsome, but I am told that he has every other qualification likely to make a gentle creature like Paula happy.”
“He is a good fellow,” exclaimed Mr. Sylvester under his breath.
“And goodness is the first essential in the character of the man who is to marry Paula,” inexorably observed Miss Belinda. “An open, cheerful disposition, a clear conscience and a past with no dark pages in its history, must mark him who is to link unto his fate our pure and sensitive Paula. Is it not so, Mr. Sylvester?”
The advertisements in that morning’s Tribune must have been unusually interesting, judging from the difficulty which Mr. Sylvester experienced in withdrawing his eyes from them. “The man whom Paula marries,” said he at last, “can neither be too good, too kind, or too pure. Nor shall any other than a good, kind, and pure man possess her,” he added in a tone that while low, effectually hushed even the slow-to-be-intimidated Miss Belinda. In another moment Paula entered.
Oh, the morning freshness of some faces! Like the singing of birds in a prison, is the sound and sight of a lovely maiden coming into the grim, gray atmosphere of a winter breakfast room. Paula was exceptionally gifted with this auroral cheer which starts the day so brightly. At sight of her face Mr. Sylvester dropped his paper, and even Miss Belinda straightened herself more energetically. “Merry Christmas,” cried her sweet young voice, and immediately the whole day seemed to grow glad with promise and gaysome with ringing sleigh-bells. “It’s snowing, did you know it? A world of life is in the air; the flakes dance as they come down, like dervishes in a frenzy. It was all we lacked to make the day complete; now we have everything.”
“Yes,” said Miss Belinda, with a significant glance at the table, “everything.”
Paula followed her glance, saw the silver box with its wealth of blossoms, and faltered back with a quick look at Mr. Sylvester’s grave and watchful countenance.
“Mr. Ensign seems to be possessed of clairvoyance,” observed Miss Belinda easily. “How he could know that you were to be in town today, I cannot imagine.”
“I wrote him in my last letter that in all probability I should spend the holidays with Mr. Sylvester,” explained Paula simply, but with a slow and deepening flush, that left the roses she contemplated nothing of which to boast. “I did so, because he proposed to visit Grotewell on Christmas.”
There was a short silence in the room, then Mr. Sylvester rose, and remarking with polite composure, “It is a very pretty remembrance,” led the way into the dining-room. Paula with a slow drooping of her head quickly followed, while Miss Belinda brought up the rear, with the look of a successful diplomat.
A meal in the Sylvester mansion was always a formal affair, but this was more than formal. A vague oppression seemed to fill the air; an oppression which Miss Belinda’s stirring conversation found it impossible to dissipate. In compliance to Mr. Sylvester’s request, she sat at the head of the table, and was the only one who seemed able to eat anything. For one thing she had never seen Ona in that post of honor, but Paula and Mr. Sylvester could not forget the graceful form that once occupied that seat. The first meal above a grave, no matter how long it has been dug, must ever seem weighted with more or less unreality.
Besides, with Paula there was a vague unsettled feeling, as if some delicate inner balance had been too rudely shaken. She longed to fly away and think, and she was obliged to sit still and talk.
The end of the meal was a relief to all parties. Miss Belinda went upstairs, thoughtfully shaking her firm head; Mr. Sylvester sat down again to his paper, and Paula advanced towards the dainty gift that awaited her inspection on the library table. But halfway to it she paused. A strange shyness had seized her. With Mr. Sylvester sitting there, she dared not approach this delicate testimonial of another’s affection. She did not know as she wished to. Her eyes stole in hesitation to the floor. Suddenly Mr. Sylvester spoke:
“Why do you not look at your pretty present, Paula?”
She started, gave him a quick glance, and advanced hurriedly towards the table; but scarcely had she reached it when she paused, turned and hastened over to his side. He was still reading, or appearing to read, but she saw his hand tremble where it grasped the sheet, though his face with its clear cut profile, shone calm and cold against the dark background of the wall beyond.
“I do not care to look at it now,” said she, with a hurried interlacing of her restless fingers.
He turned towards her and a quick thrill passed over his
