A change came at last, when Dolly was ten years old. Among the men

of whom Herminia saw most in these later days, were the little

group of advanced London socialists who call themselves the

Fabians. And among her Fabian friends one of the most active, the

most eager, the most individual, was Harvey Kynaston.

He was a younger man by many years than poor Alan had been; about

Herminia's own age; a brilliant economist with a future before him.

He aimed at the Cabinet. When first he met Herminia he was charmed

at one glance by her chastened beauty, her breadth and depth of

soul, her transparent sincerity of purpose and action. Those

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wistful eyes captured him. Before many days passed he had fallen

in love with her. But he knew her history; and, taking it for

granted she must still be immersed in regret for Alan's loss, he

hardly even reckoned the chances of her caring for him.

'Tis a common case. Have you ever noticed that if you meet a

woman, famous for her connection with some absorbing grief, some

historic tragedy, you are half appalled at first sight to find that

at times she can laugh, and make merry, and look gay with the rest

of us. Her callous glee shocks you. You mentally expect her to be

forever engaged in the tearful contemplation of her own tragic

fate; wrapt up in those she has lost, like the mourners in a Pieta.

Whenever you have thought of her, you have connected her in your

mind with that one fact in her history, which perhaps may have

happened a great many years ago. But to you, it is as yesterday.

You forget that since then many things have occurred to her. She

has lived her life; she has learned to smile; human nature itself

cannot feed for years on the continuous contemplation of its own

deepest sorrows. It even jars you to find that the widow of a

patriotic martyr, a murdered missionary, has her moments of

enjoyment, and must wither away without them.

So, just at first, Harvey Kynaston was afraid to let Herminia see

how sincerely he admired her. He thought of her rather as one

whose life is spent, who can bring to the banquet but the cold dead

ashes of a past existence. Gradually, however, as he saw more and

more of her, it began to strike him that Herminia was still in all

essentials a woman. His own throbbing heart told him so as he sat

and talked with her. He thrilled at her approach. Bit by bit the

idea rose up in his mind that this lonely soul might still be won.

He set to work in earnest to woo and win her.




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