indeed, but so drowsily, so heavily, that
it hardly reaches the ear; and so, too, with the lap-lapping of the
waves upon the shore below, as the tide comes and goes.

Not a breath of air comes to disturb the languid grandeur of the huge
elms that stand staring up to heaven just opposite the hall door. The
crows swinging in their branches up above are all subdued; hardly have
they energy enough to flap their great, broad wings.

Little stationary clouds lie like flecks of silver upon the pale-blue
sky; far far away, in the woods of Coole, a cuckoo may be heard at long
and yet longer intervals,--last remnant of a vanished spring; but all
the other birds have succumbed to the power of the great god of light,
and are wrapped in silence.

Certain stray little sunbeams, half wild with glee, rushing hither and
thither through the roses, discover Miss Penelope Blake sitting in the
drawing-room at Moyne. She is dressed in her very best lavender silk,
that would stand alone, and be glad to do it if it was let, but
unabashed by her splendor Apollo's saucy babies dance down upon her,
and, seizing on her knitting-needles, play hide and seek among them,
until the poor lady's eyes are fairly dazzled.

Fortunately, at this instant Miss Priscilla, entering the room, draws
down the blind and restores order: after which she seats herself almost
directly opposite her sister.

The Misses Blake are not pretty old ladies at all. I don't want to
deceive you in this matter. They are, in fact, quite ugly old ladies.
Their noses are all wrong, their cheeks are as wrinkled as Timothy's
forehead, and their mouths out of all drawing.

Miss Priscilla's eyes are brown,--a deep startling brown, that seems to
look you through and through and compels the truth. Her hair is brown,
too, and soft, and silky, and pretty, though thickly sprinkled with
gray. She has a great deal of this hair, and is secretly very proud of
it.

Miss Penelope's eyes are pale blue,--with very little blue,--and but for
her long lashes (sole remnants of goodlier days) would be oppressive.
Her hair is pale, too, and sandy, and is braided back from her forehead
in severe lines.

There is a pensive air about Miss Penelope that might suggest to the
casual observer an early and disastrous love-affair. But all such
imaginings on his part would be vain. No winged cupid ever hid in Miss
Penelope's ear, or played bo-peep in her virgin bosom, or nestled in her
sandy locks: she is