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42 A HASTY MARRIAGE.

touched my heart, and I was mistress enough of myself to smile, and say a few words of thanks and kindness as I gave up my charge.

The great gates were open for us to drive through, and the dark fir-avenue leading to the house was hung with colored lamps that cast rainbow reflections on the snow. The house itself was ablaze with light, and festal with music. It looked like a fairy palace, with its quaint, beautiful windows crowded with plants and flowers, the glass glittering like diamonds, the birds and blossoms behind them shining in the brilliant glare like colored jewels all along the picturesque, wide front. I thought I was dreaming still as we alighted and ascended the marble steps. In the vestibule Mr. Harter turned, and with unusual softness in his black eyes, took my hand, and welcomed me to " Paradise."

"Paradise," for so public opinion in the neighborhood had named it—and Paradise, indeed, it was, as lady guests, now fast arriving, declared, as they wandered from one to another of the gem-like rooms. I followed, too, on the arm of my escort, secretly reluctant, but reassured by his silence, and the presence of the others. Close beside me, like my shadow, moved Walter Drummond, neither speaking to, nor looking at me, but keeping over all my motions an incessant surveillance, that made me doubly uncomfortable.

We visited the basements, with their wide and convenient offices, the garrets, the chambers, beautifully furnished and appointed: the very roof, battlemented and smooth as a floor. Everywhere were evidences not only of mere wealth and opulence, or large expenditure, but of the taste that knows how to use, and the tact that rightly applies it. There was a harmony and fitness in the whole, not wholly the work of upholsterer or architect. Evidently a skilled hand had guided, an artist eye overlooked their labors-the rough miner dwelt in a house in which not merely a prince, but a poet, might have found himself at home.

We came back to the parlors after a lengthened survey, and dispersed about them, examining the beautiful things they contained. Without any appearance of ostentation or overcrowding, there was a real wealth of objects, famous from association, or rare in art. Mr. Harter kept near me, looking quietly pleased at my pleasure; on the other side Walter Drummond stood speechlessly, with a gloomy frown on his forehead. When I explored with others the treasures of the library-shelves, and found there all my old favorite books, and many more that I had long desired to see, his face was darkened with an unsympathetic sneer; and when I paused before some exquisite pictures and mosaics from Italy, such as my dear father used to bring back from his voyages, to ornament our pretty home, he resented the tears that filled my eyes, and the loving delight with which I bent over them.

"I see, Sylvia, you are like all your sex," he said, "and gradate your admiration by the price of the object to be admired. A cheaper article would have moved you less."

His tone stung me, and I was roused to retort.

"They are rare and precious," I returned, "but they have another value in my eyes. I have seen such only once before, Mr. Drummond, and it is no wonder the sight disturbed me, for they remind the homeless of home."

I said it recklessly, angry at his notice of my weakness, and looked up quickly, in time to see his baffled look, and meet Mr. Harter's eyes. Were there actually tears in them? At any rate, his countenance was strangely softened and beautified by the momentary expression it wore. A little while before, I could have wondered how this common, self-made man, had possessed himself of such treasures of art, as not merely wealth alone, but time, and taste, and training, sensitive perceptions and delicate instincts, were needed to buy; yet since seeing him, for the first time in his own home, where he was at ease and unconstrained, and now moved by another's grief to gentle sympathy and pity, I began to understand how this dark, impassive mask might conceal much that we had never fancied he could feel. He had looked both genial and good while receiving his guests with noble hospitality; and as the duties of a host obliged him to lay aside much of his ordinary reserve, there was a refinement of kindness in his manner, to which even Walter Drummond's sneers could not blind me.

He regarded me now a moment in silence, and turned to speak to Mrs. M'Donald, who with her husband drew near, I fancied, at a sign from him. The group we formed was somewhat apart from the others, who were intently examining the various curious and beautiful objects the room contained; and I understood that we were going to see something not yet exhibited, as I put my hand reluctantly in Walter's extended arm.

III.

Our conductor paused before a little white door, at the end of a suite of rooms we had lately examined, opened it, and disclosed a