ood churchyard to this very day; and before a year was
out his own name was upon the stone. In the presence of Death, that
sovereign ruler, a woman's coquetry is seared; and her jealousy will
hardly pass the boundaries of that grim kingdom. 'Tis entirely of
the earth, that passion, and expires in the cold blue air, beyond our
sphere.

At length, when the danger was quite over, it was announced that my lord
and his daughter would return. Esmond well remembered the day. The lady
his mistress was in a flurry of fear: before my lord came, she went into
her room, and returned from it with reddened cheeks. Her fate was about
to be decided. Her beauty was gone--was her reign, too, over? A minute
would say. My lord came riding over the bridge--he could be seen from
the great window, clad in scarlet, and mounted on his gray hackney--his
little daughter ambled by him in a bright riding-dress of blue, on a
shining chestnut horse. My lady leaned against the great mantel-piece,
looking on, with one hand on her heart--she seemed only the more pale
for those red marks on either cheek. She put her handkerchief to her
eyes, and withdrew it, laughing hysterically--the cloth was quite red
with the rouge when she took it away. She ran to her room again, and
came back with pale cheeks and red eyes--her son in her hand--just as my
lord entered, accompanied by young Esmond, who had gone out to meet his
protector, and to hold his stirrup as he descended from horseback.

"What, Harry, boy!" my lord said, good-naturedly, "you look as gaunt as
a greyhound. The small-pox hasn't improved your beauty, and your side of
the house hadn't never too much of it--ho, ho!"

And he laughed, and sprang to the ground with no small agility, looking
handsome and red, within a jolly face and brown hair, like a Beef-eater;
Esmond kneeling again, as soon as his patron had descended, performed
his homage, and then went to greet the little Beatrix, and help her from
her horse.

"Fie! how yellow you look," she said; "and there are one, two, red
holes in your face;" which, indeed, was very true; Harry Esmond's harsh
countenance bearing, as long as it continued to be a human face, the
marks of the disease.

My lord laughed again, in high good-humor.

"D--- it!" said he, with one of his usual oaths, "the little slut sees
everything. She saw the Dowager's paint t'other day, and asked her
why she wore that red stuff--didn't you, Trix? and the Tower; and
St. James's;