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274 beauty of the scene. No, though the steps of morning were even as angels' on the sea which grew bright beneath;—no, though the night had left the blush with which she rose from her pillow behind her on the clouds;—no, though the white cliffs stood out before her—stainless portals of earth's most glorious land;—she gazed upon it because it was the country of Edward Lorraine. "Edward, my own beloved Edward!" said she in English; and then hid her face in her hands, as if to shut out every object but that now present to her thoughts. A slight noise in the cabin aroused her. She blushed to think how forgetful she had been of time. The coast was now distinctly visible; the town glittered in the sunshine—the Castle reared its head proudly on the height—a hundred ships floated in the Downs—a hundred flags were rising in the breeze. "Oh, Emily, come!" exclaimed the Spanish girl, "and see your own beautiful country." Emily, whose arousing from sleep had attracted Beatrice's attention, rose from the sofa, and leaning on her companion's shoulder, shared the cabin-window. Once, only once, she looked almost as if with envy in the Spaniard's face—it was but for a moment, and she too turned to