adly as she did clearly. What she could not so distinctly
imagine was, how he could reconcile the devotion to his country, which
he had taught her to put her faith in, with his unhappy subjection to
Madame de Rouaillout. How could the nobler sentiment exist side by side
with one that was lawless? Or was the wildness characteristic of his
political views proof of a nature inclining to disown moral ties? She
feared so; he did not speak of the clergy respectfully. Reading in the
dark, she was forced to rely on her social instincts, and she distrusted
her personal feelings as much as she could, for she wished to know the
truth of him; anything, pain and heartrending, rather than the shutting
of the eyes in an unworthy abandonment to mere emotion and fascination.
Cecilia's love could not be otherwise given to a man, however near
she might be drawn to love--though she should suffer the pangs of love
cruelly.

She placed his card in her writing-desk; she had his likeness there.
Commander Beauchamp encouraged the art of photography, as those that
make long voyages do, in reciprocating what they petition their friends
for. Mrs. Rosamund Culling had a whole collection of photographs of him,
equal to a visual history of his growth in chapters, from boyhood to
midshipmanship and to manhood. The specimen possessed by Cecilia was one
of a couple that Beauchamp had forwarded to Mrs. Grancey Lespel on
the day of his departure for France, and was a present from that lady,
purchased, like so many presents, at a cost Cecilia would have paid
heavily in gold to have been spared, namely, a public blush. She was
allowed to make her choice, and she chose the profile, repeating
a remark of Mrs. Culling's, that it suggested an arrow-head in the
upflight; whereupon Mr. Stukely Culbrett had said, 'Then there is the
man, for he is undoubtedly a projectile'; nor were politically-hostile
punsters on an arrow-head inactive. But Cecilia was thinking of the
side-face she (less intently than Beauchamp at hers) had glanced at
during the drive into Bevisham. At that moment, she fancied Madame de
Rouaillout might be doing likewise; and oh that she had the portrait of
the French lady as well!

Next day her father tossed her a photograph of another gentleman, coming
out of a letter he had received from old Mrs. Beauchamp. He asked her
opinion of it. She said, 'I think he would have suited Bevisham better
than Captain Baskelett.' Of the original, who presente