Christie's eyes soon wandered from her book to the lovely face and
motionless figure on the couch. Just opposite, in a recess, hung the
portrait of a young and handsome man, and below it stood a vase of
flowers, a graceful Roman lamp, and several little relics, as if it
were the shrine where some dead love was mourned and worshipped
still.
As she looked from the living face, so pale and so pathetic in its
quietude, to the painted one so full of color, strength, and
happiness, her heart ached for poor Helen, and her eyes were wet
with tears of pity. A sudden movement on the couch gave her no time
to hide them, and as she hastily looked down upon her book a
treacherous drop fell glittering on the page.
"What have you there so interesting?" asked Helen, in that softly
imperious tone of hers.
"Don Quixote," answered Christie, too much abashed to have her wits
about her.
Helen smiled a melancholy smile as she rose, saying wearily:
"They gave me that to make me laugh, but I did not find it funny;
neither was it sad enough to make me cry as you do."
"I was not reading, I was"--there Christie broke down, and could
have cried with vexation at the bad beginning she had made.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121