Lady Marchmont clenched her hands together, and asked—"Will he come?"
The cold wind lifted her long hair from her neck; but she felt it not. Suddenly she started; she pressed her hands to her burning eye-lids to clear their sight: but—no; she was not deceived: a figure, as yet indistinct as a shadow, was hurrying across the park. The colour deepened on her cheek, the light flashed from her eyes; but neither colour nor light were such as are wont to welcome the expected lover's arrival.
"He must not find me waiting on the balcony," whispered she, with a mechanical consciousness of feminine pride; "yet, what does it matter?" added she, with a bitter laugh.
However, she again resumed her seat in the arm-chair, and busied herself about a lamp, over which some coffee was boiling. She looked very different now to what she had done while seated on that very chair when Maynard came.
She had taken off her velvet robe, and was
