She gazed at her aunt Camilla with a peaceful eye of prophecy.

Just so would she herself look years hence.

Her hair would part sparsely to the wind, like hers, and show here and there silver instead of golden lustres.

There would be a soft rosetted cap of lace to hide the thinnest places, and her cheeks, like her aunt's, would crumple and wrinkle as softly as old rose leaves, and, like her aunt, in this guise she would walk her path of life alone.
Lucina seemed to see, as through a long, converging tunnel of years, her solitary self, miniatured clearly in the distance, gliding on, like Camilla, with that sweet calm of motion of one who has left the glow of joy behind, but feels her path trend on peace.
"I dare say it may be just as well not to marry, after all," reasoned Lucina, "a great many people are not married.

Aunt Camilla seems very happy, happier than many married women whom I have seen.