morning till night and from night till morning. It wafted through the whole apartment the fragrance of a large granadilla, cut in half for the purpose, that stood surrounded by a few shaddocks, limes, and pomegranates, heaped together like a cornucopia on a small table in the corner; it fluttered the leaves of a book that lay on Mademoiselle de Montmirail's knee, who was pretending to read, with her eyes resting wearily on a streak of blue sea, far off between the mountains; and it lifted the dark hair from the temples of the Marquise, fanning with grateful breath, yet scarce cooling, the rich crimson of her cheek.
The resemblance between these two grew closer day by day. While the mother remained stationary at that point of womanly beauty to which the daughter was approaching, figure and face, in each, became more and more alike; and though the type of the elder was still the richer and more glowing, of the younger, the more delicate and classical, Cerise seemed unaccountably to have gained some of that spirit and vitality which the Marquise seemed as unaccountably to have lost.
Also on the countenance of each might be traced the same expression—the longing, wistful look of those who live in some world of their own, out of and far beyond the present, saddened in the woman's face with memory as it was brightened in the girl's by hope.
"It is suffocating!" exclaimed the former, rising restlessly from her seat, and pushing the hair off her temples with a gesture of impatience. "Cerise, my darling, are you made of stone that you do not cry out at this insupportable heat? It irritates me to see you sit reading there as calmly as if you could feel the wind blowing off the heights of Montmartre in January. It seems as if the sun would never go down in this oven that they call an island."
Cerise shut her book and collected her scattered ideas with an obvious effort. "I read, mamma," she answered smiling, "because it is less fatiguing than to think, but I obtain as little result from the one process as the other. Do you know, I begin to believe the stories we used to hear in Paris about the West Indies, and I am persuaded that we shall not only be shrivelled up to mummies in a few more weeks, but that our tongues will be so dry and cracked as
