Mrs.Carnaby's fine sense of the becoming declared itself in dark array; her voice was tenderly subdued; the pressure of her hand, the softly lingering touch of her lips, conveyed a sympathy which perfect taste would not allow to become demonstrative.

Alma could at first say nothing.

The faint rose upon her cheek had vanished; her eyes were heavy, and lacked their vital gleam; her mouth, no longer mobile and provocative, trembled on the verge of sobs, pathetic, childlike.

She hung her head, moved with a languid, diffident step, looked smaller and slighter, a fashionable garb of woe aiding the unhappy transformation.
'I oughtn't to have given you this trouble,' said Sibyl.

'But perhaps you would rather see me here----' 'Yes--oh yes--it was much better----' 'Sit down, dear.