And the autumn violets, her sister's gift, that were fastened to-day in profusion at her waist, marked in truth the re-awakening of buried things, of feminine instincts long repressed.

For months, her maid Fanchette had dressed her, and she had worn obediently all the long crape gowns and veils dictated by the etiquette of French mourning.

But to-day she had chosen for herself; and in this more ordinary garb, she was vaguely--sometimes remorsefully--conscious of relief and deliverance.
Two subjects filled her mind.

First, a conversation with Fenwick that she had held that morning, strolling through the upper alleys of the Park.

Poor friend, poor artist! Often and often, during her wanderings, had her thoughts dwelt anxiously on his discontents and calamities; she had made her sister or her father write to him when she could not write herself--though Lord Findon indeed had been for long much out of patience with him; and during the last few months she herself had written every week.