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 and he had brought with him Miss Keeldar: they were together.

"I said she was lovelier than ever: she is. A fine rose, not deep but delicate, opens on her cheek; her eye, always dark, clear, and speaking, utters now a language I cannot render—it is the utterance, seen not heard, through which angels must have communed when there was 'silence in heaven.' Her hair was always dusk as night, and fine as silk; her neck was always fair, flexible, polished—but both have now a new charm: the tresses are soft as shadow, the shoulders they fall on wear a goddess-grace. Once I only saw her beauty, now I feel it.

"Henry was repeating his lesson to her before bringing it to me—one of her hands was occupied with the book, he held the other: that boy gets more than his share of privileges; he dares caress and is caressed. What indulgence and compassion she shows him! Too much: if this went on, Henry, in a few years, when his soul was formed, would offer it on her altar as I have offered mine.

"I saw her eyelid flitter when I came in, but she did not look up: now she hardly ever gives me a glance. She seems to grow silent too—to me she rarely speaks, and, when I am present, she says little to others. In my gloomy moments, I attribute this change to indifference,—aversion,—what not? In my sunny intervals, I give it another meaning: I say, were I her equal, I could find in this shyness—coyness, and in that coyness—love. As it is, dare I look for it? What could I do with it, if found?

"This morning I dared, at least, contrive an hour's