The clock on the mantel struck twelve. Christine rose to her feet with a little shiver. There was a mirror not far away, toward which she turned and surveyed herself from head to foot. As she did so the soft folds of her Greek drapery settled about her, severe and beautiful. The masses of her dark hair were into a loose, rich knot pierced by a gold , and her eyes—so beautiful in color and expression that no one ever saw them unimpressed—were clear and steady as they gazed at the reflected image in front of her.  
“I wonder,” she said, lifting her bare arms with a sort of conscious unconsciousness and clasping her hands in a fine pose behind her head, which she turned slightly to one side, “I wonder if this is the very last of me—the very last of the Christine who loved to look beautiful and wear rich clothes and be admired, and who thought that she would one day be loved.”
 
 
Turning away from that long look she held out both fair arms to Hannah.
 
“Come close, close, Hannah,” she said, as the plain little teacher, in her rough dark gown, was drawn into her embrace. “I want to feel some living thing near my heart to-night, for I am frightened and lonely. I have told myself good-by. Christine is dead and gone and I have buried her. I want some one near me in these first moments of my strange new self. Oh, Hannah, if we could die! Not you—for your mother needs you—but me. Oh, Hannah,” she said, in a strained voice that sounded as if it were only by an effort that she kept her teeth from , “if I hadn’t you to-night I don’t know what would become of me.”
 
Hannah tried to her with soft words of comfort and assurances of love.
 
“It will not be so dark and sad and friendless as you think,” she said. “All those people who have admired and praised you so will surely be good to you—” But she was interrupted sharply.
 
“I am done with them,” she said, “and done with fine , and becoming colors.” Her voice shook, and Hannah, seeing that she was completely unnerved, succeeded in persuading her to go up to her own room. On the threshold she paused.
 
“Come into the dressing-room with me,” Christine said. “Don’t leave me. He will not wake,” she added, seeing her friend glance toward the door between the dressing-room and sleeping-room. “He sleeps like a stone. I shall lie here on the lounge till morning. I often do. I have lain there, night in and out, and almost my heart away, and no one knew.”
 
Hannah braided the lovely hair, unfastened the white and gold dress, which fell in a rich mass on the floor, and out of it Christine stepped, looking more lovely than ever and more childlike. She caught sight of the she still wore, and hastily taking them off laid them in a heap on the dressing-table.
 
“They can be sold,” she said. “I shall never want to put them on again. Oh, Hannah, you are so good to me,” she went on in the voice of an unhappy child, as Hannah brought a warm dressing-gown and made her put it on, and little soft-lined for her feet. “I am so cold,” she said, shivering. “Some day you will know, perhaps, how unhappy I am. You don’t know half of it now, and I cannot tell you. Oh, you have made me so comfortable,” she added, as Hannah tucked a warm coverlet over her, on the big, soft lounge. “I haven’t had any one to take care of me for so long. Don’t leave me, Hannah. Sit in that big chair and hold my hand and let me go to sleep. I am so tired.”
 
Her lids and her voice fell. In another moment she was asleep.
 
Once only Christine opened her eyes, and finding Hannah still there said piteously, “Oh, I am so unhappy,” but the plaintive little tones died away in sleepiness, and in a moment she was drawing in the regular breaths of profound .
 
By-and-by, without waking her, Hannah drew her hand away, and leaning back in the big chair, threw a great shawl all around her, and worn out by the experiences of the evening, she also fell asleep.
 
Morning found them so. The rising sun looking in at the window waked them , and with a remembering look on both faces, they were clasped in each other’s arms. A long embrace and then a kiss. No word was spoken, and when they met at breakfast and were joined by Mr. Dallas, the manner of all three was as usual. The servant who waited saw nothing to comment upon, except, perhaps, that the unwonted presence of a guest made little difference in the usual silentness of the meal.