"Yes, I should like to see them," said Mr. Fontaine softly. "Evelyn was
very dear to me."

They were hanging side by side in the great hall, and even my childish
eyes saw their strength and beauty. His was a narrow, patrician face,
beautiful as a woman's, looking from a wealth of brown curls, soft and
flowing. The little pucker at the corners of his mouth bespoke his
relish of a jest, and the high nose and well-placed eyes his courage and
spirit. But it was at the other I looked the longest. She was seated upon
a grassy bank, with the shadows of the evening gathering about her. In
the branches above her head gleamed a red-bird's brilliant plumage. On
her lap lay a heap of roses, and in her hand she held a shepherd's crook.
Her gown, of pale blue satin, was open at the throat, and showed its fair
sweet fullness and the bosom's promise. Her face was pensive,--sad,
almost,--the lips just touching, a soft light in the great dark eyes. I
had never seen such a picture,--nor have I ever looked upon another such.
I can close my eyes and see it even now. But the storm had passed, and it
was time to go.

"Why did Miss Evelyn die?" I questioned, as soon as we were out of the
avenue of tulips and in the highway.

He looked down at me a moment, and seemed hesitating for an answer.

"She loved a man in London," he said. "Her father would not let her marry
him, and brought her home. She was not strong, and gossips say her heart
was broken."

"But why would he not let her marry him?" I asked.