painful, so terrible was the sensation, that, with all her mastery
over herself, she could not conceal the agony under which she writhed.
She became silent, grave, fell into fits of thought, which clouded the
broad brow, and made the fine-cut lip quiver. Mr. Marlow was surprised
and grieved. He asked himself what could be the matter. Something had
evidently made her sorrowful, and he could not trace the sorrow to its
source; for she carefully avoided uttering one word in depreciation of
Emily Hastings. In this she showed no woman's spirit. She could have
stabbed her, had the girl been there in her presence; but she would not
scratch her. Petty spite was too low for her, too small for the
character of her mind. Hers was a heart capable of revenge, and would be
satisfied with nothing less.

Mr. Marlow soothed her, spoke to her kindly, tenderly, tried to lead her
mind away, to amuse, to entertain her. Oh, it was all gall and
bitterness to her. He might have cursed, abused, insulted her, without,
perhaps--diminishing her love--certainly without inflicting half the
anguish that was caused by his gentle words. It is impossible to tell
all the varied emotions that went on in her heart--at least for me.
Shakspeare could have done it, but none less than Shakspeare. For a
moment she knew not whether she loved or hated him; but she soon felt
and knew it was love; and the hate, like lightning striking a rock, and
glancing from the solid stone to rend a sapling, all turned away from
him, to fall upon the head of poor unconscious Emily Hastings.

Though she could not recover from the blow she had received, yet she
soon regained command over herself, conversed, smiled, banished
absorbing thoughts, answered calmly, pertinently, even spoke in her own
bright, brilliant way, with a few more figures and ornaments of speech
than usual; for figures are things rather of the head than of the heart,
and it was from the head that she was now speaking.

At length Mr. Marlow took his leave, and for the first time in life she
was glad he was gone.

Mrs. Hazleton gave way to no burst of passion: she shed not a tear; she
uttered no exclamation. That which was within her heart, was too intense
for any such ordinary expression. She seated herself at a table, leaned
her head upon her hand, and fixed her eyes upon one bright spot in the
marquetry. There she sat for more than an entire hour, without a motion,
and in the meantime what were the thoughts