Once more, the June sunshine is
flooding the land and the air is heavy with the odor of June blossoms.
In a small town in the south of France, a young woman, gowned in deepest
mourning, sits by her own casement and gazes gloomily, despairingly, out
into the gathering twilight. On a table at her side is a small pile of
money which she has counted over and over again in the vain hope that
she may have made a mistake and that, perhaps, after all, the amount is
not quite so small as she has made it out to be. That little pile of
money represents her entire worldly wealth, and when it is gone what is
to become of her? Work? She glances at the soft, delicate hands resting
idly in her lap. Their whiteness is dazzling as compared with the black
of her gown, and she smiles rather bitterly. What work could hands like
those perform? They are beautiful certainly, but useless, absolutely
useless, just as she herself is useless. There is not one thing by which
she can earn her daily bread, and earn it she must or starve. To what a
pass has she come; she, who at one time had wealth at her command and
the world at her feet.
As she sits there, broken in spirit, broken in health, a middle-aged
woman in appearance, while in years not much beyond her first youth,
she recalls those triumphs of her past. Her success had been marvelous
though short-lived.
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