carelessly wrapped in a white silk night-gown, fastened with violet ribands. It was one she had worn in half-mourning, and had all the coquettish elegance of demie parure. The serpent was unbound from her hair, which was partly gathered up with a violet band—part left loose on her shoulders, as if she had stopped in the middle of her graceful task. She was pale no longer, her cheek burned with the clear feverish red of the pomegranate, and gave that peculiar light to the eyes, which is only given by the contrast of the crimson. Deep as it was, it grew yet deeper; for Sir George Kingston entered the room.
"Thus, let me thank you! thus, pour out my happiness!" exclaimed he, throwing himself at her feet.
She averted her face, but that was only natural timidity.
"Ah!" cried she, suddenly, "your cloak is quite wet with morning dew: you are a laggard, Sir George!"
"I have not had your note half-an-hour,"
