ifficulty had
she maintained herself! Doubtful whether he would even formally
acknowledge her presence, her vision as if by fascination had
nevertheless met his, and grew dizzy as he passed. In the interval
that had elapsed between his first passing and then joining her, what
a chaos was her mind! What a wild blending of all the scenes and
incidents of her life! What random answers had she made to those with
whom she had been before conversing with ease and animation! And then,
when she unexpectedly found Cadurcis at her side, and listened to the
sound of that familiar voice, familiar and yet changed, expressing
so much tenderness in its tones, and in its words such deference and
delicate respect, existence felt to her that moment affluent with a
blissful excitement of which she had never dreamed!

Her life was a reverie until they met again, in which she only mused
over his fame, and the strange relations of their careers. She had
watched the conduct of her mother to him at dinner with poignant
sorrow; she scarcely believed that she should have an opportunity
of expressing to him her sympathy. And then what had followed?
A conversation, every word of which had touched her heart; a
conversation that would have entirely controlled her feelings even if
he had not already subjected them. The tone in which he so suddenly
had pronounced 'Venetia,' was the sweetest music to which she had ever
listened. His allusion to her father had drawn tears, which could not
be restrained even in a crowded saloon. Now she wept plenteously.
It was so generous, so noble, so kind, so affectionate! Dear, dear
Cadurcis, is it wonderful that you should be loved?

Then falling into a reverie of sweet and unbroken stillness, with her
eyes fixed in abstraction on the fire, Venetia reviewed her life from
the moment she had known Plantagenet. Not an incident that had ever
occurred to them that did not rise obedient to her magical bidding.
She loved to dwell upon the time when she was the consolation of his
sorrows, and when Cherbury was to him a pleasant refuge! Oh! she felt
sure her mother must remember those fond days, and love him as she
once did! She pictured to herself the little Plantagenet of her
childhood, so serious and so pensive when alone or with others, yet
with her at times so gay and wild, and sarcastic; forebodings all of
that deep and brilliant spirit, which had since stirred up the heart
of a great nation, and dazzled the fancy of