When the Birds Begin to Sing

Excerpt: ... starts in trepidation; her thoughts have been so far away that they are brought back to the present with an effort. She sees before her a face lined more deeply with sorrow than time, a woman who might still have considerable beauty had she not dyed her hair in her youth and ruined her complexion with cosmetics. The request does not offend Eleanor, for Mrs. Roche is easily won by a kind look or a smile. She hands the photograph across, watching the stranger's expression. "What a handsome face!" she exclaims, with a little gasp of admiration. "Yes," sighs Eleanor. "I never saw such mesmeric eyes, and yet they are soft, though powerful. I should say that man must have broken many a heart with those eyes." She looks shrewdly at Mrs. Roche as she speaks. "If he loves you," she continues, "he will be true." Eleanor's head droops. "You love him," said the stranger, reading the tell-tale blush. "Are you going to marry him, my dear?" "No," falters Eleanor, "I wish I could." "Ah! I thought so. Forgive me for my curiosity, but your face interested me, and I am not conventional. I always speak if I wish, though it offends some people. To me the fashion of introducing seems absurd. Here we are all jumbled up together in the same little world, yet everyone is a mass of reserve, a mind in armour, they never say what they mean, seldom speak from the heart. One is in the dust, and another on the throne, and they all die in like manner, to be buried most probably by a man they would not have dared address without an introduction, measured by an undertaker they could not have been seen walking with in the street, and to mix with thousands of spirits whose ancestors and pedigree are unknown." Eleanor listens in surprise. "Are you uncertain about your future?" the stranger asks. "A little," falters Eleanor nervously. "Then let me look at your hand, I may be able to help you. No, the left hand please," as Mrs. Roche tremblingly unbuttons her right glove. "Ah!" as the...