Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/642

1, 1861.] larsh shum—quite forget it—beautiful goodsh”—when snap went the knife, open flew the lid, disclosing a set of lovely antique ornaments, of enamel, gold, and rubies; the set consisting of ear-rings and four clasps, varying in size from a five-shilling piece to a sixpence, evidently for the front of a lady’s robe. I was charmed with them: the case was old, worn and faded, but the jewels were clear, bright, and beautiful, sparkling in a way that only finest rubies can do. Then, where did these antique Austrian (which I at once knew they were) ornaments come from? Benjamin, of course, was in a state of benighted ignorance on this point; but, noting my flushed cheek and greedy eyes, did not omit to ask a very fair sum, but still so little in comparison with their real value, that I saw he did not appreciate them; and after a very short parley with that individual, I walked off, with the little queer-shaped, faded case in my muff, elated and happy as a child with her first doll.

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How often so small an incident as the foregoing may render us sad or gay: however charmed I might be with my new possession, a weight lay on my heart when I recollected that the only person to whom I could show it, or that would be pleased with my pleasure, was faithful Mary Bennet.

On that excellent lady’s inspection I was more than usually gratified, for the good dame’s cheek varied from the yellow tinted codling to the rosy ribston pippin, and back again to the russet, as she pronounced the highest encomium her lips were capable of. “They minded her strangelie of a set the vary same, worn by the Lady Janet Johnstoun o’ Johnstoun Ha’.”

The afternoon was fading from the jovial crispness of a frosty day into the chill air and clinging damp of a steady thaw, when I set myself about expecting Lora Gardiner, with the sort of restless preparation one is instinctively guilty of when it is for some loved one. Four o’clock! the day is closed, and night—or rather darkness—coming on. Tea things are on the Sutherland table by the library hearth; the room is long, and, I think, somewhat dark; the two fire-places, though logs are bright and blazing on each, seem as though one was for visible, the other invisible, folk. I don’t like to think of the latter, and have just placed the teapot inside the visible mortal’s fender, when I hear quick, cheerful carriage wheels grating on the drive. I burn both face and fingers in an attempt to replace that Madame Follet of domestic life, the teapot, on her tray, and spring forward, so heartily glad to greet my beauty—dear, dear Lora Gardiner!—with her fair face and serious eyes, her winning smile and atmosphere of sunshine. Yes, though since we parted, Lora, your life has been past and done, and though your young blood has done its part to lave the walls of Lucknow, in many a noble hall, in many a lowly home, your name is breathed with blessings, and your memory hallowed with a tear. Whenever I now think of Lora, the familiar epitaph in a country churchyard at home comes to my recollection: