supposed
to be a native of India; but it has long been naturalized and extensively
cultivated elsewhere, particularly in Russia, where it forms an article
of primary importance.'"

CHAPTER LVII.

DINING WITH LAWRENCE NEWT.

Gabriel Bennett was not confident that Edward Wynne would be at the
birthday dinner given in his honor by Lawrence Newt, but he was very sure
that May Newt would be there, and so she was. It was at Delmonico's; and
a carriage arrived at the Bennets' just in time to convey them. Another
came to Mr. Boniface Newt's, to whom brother Lawrence explained that he
had invited his daughter to dinner, and that he should send a young
friend--in fact, his confidential clerk, to accompany Miss Newt. Brother
Boniface, who looked as if he were the eternally relentless enemy of all
young friends, had nevertheless the profoundest confidence in brother
Lawrence, and made no objection. So the hero of the day conducted Miss
May Newt to the banquet.

The hero of the day was so engaged in conversation with Miss May Newt
that he said very little to his neighbor upon the other side, who was no
other than Hope Wayne. She had been watching very curiously a young man
with black curls and eyes, who seemed to have words only for his
neighbor, Miss Ellen Bennet. She presently turned and asked Gabriel
if she had never seen him before. "I have, surely, some glimmering
remembrance of that face," she said, studying it closely.

Her question recalled a day which was strangely remote and unreal in
Gabriel's memory. He even half blushed, as if Miss Wayne had reminded him
of some early treason to a homage which he felt in the very bottom of his
heart for his blue-eyed neighbor. But the calm, unsuspicious sweetness of
Hope Wayne's face consoled him. He looked at her for a moment without
speaking. It was really but a moment, yet, as he looked, he lay in a
heavily-testered bed--he heard the beating of the sea upon the shore--he
saw the sage Mentor, the ghostly Calypso putting aside the curtain--for a
moment he was once more the little school-boy, bruised and ill at
Pinewood; but this face--no longer a girl's face--no longer anxious,
but sweet, serene, and tender--was this the half-haughty face he had
seen and worshipped in the old village church--the face whose eyes of
sympathy, but not of love, had filled his heart with such exquisite pain?

"That young man, Miss Wayne, is Edward Wynne," he said, in reply to the
question.