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CHAPTER XIII.
"Love is an offering of the whole heart, madam—
A sacrifice of all that poor life hath;
And he who gives his all, whate'er that be,
Gives greatly, and deserveth no one's scorn."
Barry Cornwall.
The tremulous pressure of Louis's hand yet vibrating through every pulse of her own—his last whispered words yet musical in her ear, Marie hastily turned into one of the more shaded walks, where the boughs, trained to meet overhead, and the trellis-work on either side thick with creeping and odoriferous shrubs, shut out all view but its own green and winding path. Her cheek was flushed, her eyes danced in light, and a frequent smile passed like sudden sunshine over her face; vanity, in that moment of triumph, had all the strength of a passion,—its enthusiasm—its imagination; everything seemed possible—the future rose palpable before her. Her eager and buoyant step became more stately, as if already in the presence of her court; already she granted favours,
