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 her mother's yellowing laces. Many times a day would she ask it the same question, till the mirror, like a sentient thing, seemed to sympathize with her desire, and gave her back the strange reply:—

"Love is a great beautifier!"

After that Nasha never consulted the mirror again; it had pained and tormented her more even than her brother.

The summer wore away, and winter dragged through its slow months to February, which brought a reminder of Volmer's return. Never had the thought of his presence been more unwelcome. His letters, which had grown more frequent than usual since his last visit, were filled with hints that frightened Nasha, and whispers had also reached her concerning the nature of his life in Paris. Ruin seemed the doom of all the men whose friendship he acquired. More than one noble name had been dragged, through him, in the mire; more than one princely fortune had been gambled into his hands—to leave them again quickly. His insolent triumphs were beginning to be ascribed to no common means. Men sometimes spoke of him on the boulevards and in the cafés as in league with the devil, as a votary of the black art, as an accomplished sorcerer. These things came to his sister's ears, and a sinister warning, personal to herself, seemed to underlie them.

The date Volmer fixed for his return was earlier this spring than Nasha had ever known it to be. He also spoke of a prolonged stay, and hinted at a service Nasha was to render him. Partly because of this, and partly because of a presentiment of evil, the girl was less willing than ever to welcome him to her house. He was to reach Eagle's Gorge about sunset, and Nasha went out on the terrace with Lyoff to watch for the carriage, not because she was eager for its advent, but to master herself in the realization of Volmer's approach, in order that when he met her he should detect no trace of fear or suspicion in her face or voice. She saw the carriage at last, a speck on the white road below, and she sat down on a ledge of rock to watch its tedious upward journey. While she sat there pondering, more than half repining and quite excited, the conviction seized her that Volmer was not alone, and that the companion he was bringing to the castle would be, somehow, the victim of his reckless egotism.

By-and-by the wolfhound growled. It was his welcome to the travellers, whose steps, as they mounted the last part of the ascent on foot, now sounded on his quick ears. Volmer came first upon the terrace. He was a bold-looking man, with somewhat shifty eyes and a charming smile, beneath which a keen observer might have detected the possibility of relentless cruelty. After him came the impersonation of all Nasha's ideals—alas alas! the original of the portrait she had looked on once and not forgotten. It had not lied; he was supremely handsome, he was beautiful. The portrait had said as much as that, but what it had not told, what no portrait could ever reveal, was the perfect blending of delicacy and manliness in the smooth, fair skin, the dimpled chin, the sensitive nostrils, the laughing brown eyes, and the throat like a column of ivory, upon which Nasha's gaze was fastened. The man's splendid proportions, combining strength with the utmost elegance, forbade the insinuation that his beauty was too feminine in its refinement, and he stood before his friend's sister an all but perfect type of masculine humanity.

The shame of her own dearth of attractions rushed upon Nasha in the presence of so