That indescribable change, the radiance of her eyes, the buoyancy of her step, the lovely colour that deepened and died, the smiles that came so rapidly now--all told how much she loved Reginald Stanford.
Was it returned, that absorbing devotion?
He was very devoted; he was beside her when she sang; he sought her always when he entered the room, he was her escort on all occasions; but--was it returned?
It seemed to Doctor Frank, watching quietly, that there was something wanting--something too vague to be described, but lacking.

Kate did not miss it herself, and it might be only a fancy.

Perhaps it was that she was above and beyond him, with thoughts and feelings in that earnest heart of hers he could never understand.

He was very handsome, very brilliant; but underlying the beauty and the brilliancy of the surface there was shallowness, and selfishness, and falsity.
He was walking up and down the tamarack walk, thinking of this and smoking a cigar, one evening, about a week after the arrival of Stanford.

The February twilight fell tenderly over snowy ground, dark, stripped trees, and grim old mansion.