The Beautiful Stranger

"From the glance of her eye
Shun danger and fly,
for fatal's the glance."

Very happy were the married lovers as they sat over their tea, even
though the scene of their domestic joy was just now but an inn-parlor.
Both the young people had good appetites: gratified love had not
deprived them of that.

They talked of their homeward journey and how pleasant it would be in
this glorious autumn weather, and of their home and how glad they would
be to reach it--yes, how glad! For, paradoxical as it may seem to say
so, there is no happiness so perfect as that which looks forward to
something still more perfect, if such could be possible in the future.
They talked of the Black Valley, and how beautiful even that would look
in its gorgeous October livery.

Suddenly in the midst of their sweet converse they heard the sound of
weeping--low, deep, heart-broken weeping.

Both paused, looked at each other and listened.

The sound seemed to come from a room on the opposite side of the passage
to their own apartment.

"What is that?" inquired Sybil, looking up to her husband's face.

"It seems to be some woman in distress," answered Lyon.

"Oh! see what it is, dear, will you?" entreated Sybil.

She was herself so happy, that it was really dreadful to be reminded
just then that sorrow should exist in this world; at all.