vases filled with fresh water stood. Dozens of
birds,

"Whose starry wings
Bore the rich hues of all glorious things,"

were flying about it in giddy enjoyment. The love birds
sitting quietly and lovingly together on a corner of the same
perch, the weavers with their endless tails, the miniature
dove, the cordon bleu, with his turquoise breast, and the
little cardinal, with his self-sufficient pomp, were all
there, and seemed to bathe and to fly, to eat and to drink, to
love and to quarrel, as freely as if they still ranged through
the boundless depths of their native woods.

And near them stood the singer of that wild melody, which had
woke me from my short sleep. There she was like a little queen
in the midst of her own fairy kingdom. She was dressed in a
silk gown, whose train swept over the gravel walks as she
moved slowly along. A berthe of the richest Guipure old lace
was clasped on her breast by one single pearl pin; some sprigs
of the deep red salvia were fastened in her hair. She held a
large pair of garden scissors in her hand; and, as she walked
along, she cut the dead flowers from the bushes, as she
passed, and flung them aside; every now and then a fresh burst
of song springing from lips which seemed only made to smile.
She came nearer to the house; and, while cutting off a
drooping moss-rose from its stem, she stood where the slanting
rays of the evening sun threw a rich glow over her auburn hair
and her blooming cheek.

I could hear now the words of her song, and recognised those
lines of Montrose, the Hero and the Bard:

"My dear and only love, I pray,
That little world of thee,
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchy."

The dead rose, the song, those images of beauty and of joy,
the connection of ideas which they suggested, were all too
much for me. I turned back into the room, and, as I did so, I
caught sight of myself in the standing looking-glass opposite.
My pale face, my heavy dark eyes, my black uncurled hair, were
before me; they seemed to tell my life's history; all, all its
sad secrets were there; its love, its hate, its pride; its
remorse, its anguish, and its despair.

I remarked that day at dinner that Mr. Escourt seemed
particularly anxious to ingratiate himself with me, perhaps
because I had seemed reluctant to allow him to do so, which
with some men is apt to make them strain every nerve to
succeed; but, as I decidedly repulsed all his attempts