between
her two hands, "this dress was designed by my friend Merthyr--that
is, Mr. Powys--from what he remembered of a dress worn by Countess
Branciani, of Venice. He had it made to give to me. It came from Paris.
Countess Branciani was one of his dearest friends. I feel that I am
twice as much his friend with this on me. Mother, it seems like a deep
blush all over me. I feel as if I looked out of a rose."

She spread her hands to express the flower magnified.

"Oh! what silly talk," said her mother: "it does turn your head, this
dress does!"

"I wish it would give me my voice, mother. My father has no hope. I wish
he would send me news to make me happy about him; or come and run his
finger up the strings for hours, as he used to. I have fancied I heard
him at times, and I had a longing to follow the notes, and felt sure of
my semi-tones. He won't see me! Mother! he would think something of me
if he saw me now!"

Her mother's lamentations reached that vocal pitch at last which Emilia
could not endure, and the little lady was despatched to her home under
charge of a servant.

Emilia feasted on the looking-glass when alone. Had Merthyr, in
restoring her to health, given her an overdose of the poison?

"Countess Branciani made the Austrian Governor her slave," she uttered,
planting one foot upon a stool to lend herself height. "He told her who
were suspected, and who would be imprisoned, and gave her all the State
secrets. Beauty can do more than music. I wonder whether Merthyr loved
her? He loves me!"

Emilia was smitten with a fear that he would speak of it when she next
saw him. "Oh! I hope he will be just the same as he has been," she
sighed; and with much melancholy shook her head at her fair reflection,
and began to undress. It had not struck her with surprise that two men
should be loving her, until, standing away from the purple folds, she
seemed to grow smaller and smaller, as a fire-log robbed of its flame,
and felt insufficient and weak. This was a new sensation. She depended
no more on her own vital sincerity. It was in her nature, doubtless,
to crave constantly for approval, but in the service of personal beauty
instead of divine Art, she found herself utterly unwound without it:
victim of a sense of most uncomfortable hollowness. She was glad to
extinguish the candle and be covered up dark in the circle of her
warmth. Then her young blood sang to her again.

An hour before breakfast every morning s