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 till they rest on his collar, and then pause as if intent on studying the jewel in his scarf. He steps back a pace, as if to go; then the eyes flash upward into his, the glad color pulses to her cheek and brow, for at what she sees all her fear is forgotten.

Never did days fly by as did those that followed Robert's arrival at Woodbridge. There was so much for him to see, there were so many people for him to meet, that every hour was filled. He had never been at the North, and everything he saw had the interest of novelty. The beautiful old Ruysdale house, which was new when the century was young, with its treasures of ancient carving, of ancestral silver, its family portraits by Stuart and Copley, its miniatures by Malbone of the dead-and-gone Ruysdales, all sleeping in the graveyard of the old church which the founder of the family had erected. Then there were the living Ruysdales, even more awesome to Feuardent's mind,—the General's aunt and Margaret's several dozens of cousins, all of whom felt themselves privileged to mystify and embarrass him as to their puzzling names and identity. Margaret was immensely popular in this large family circle, and not a day passed in which Robert was not made to understand what a lucky fellow he was,—first in winning a Ruysdale for his wife, and secondly in that the particular