hough suggesting how much of in-door happiness was contained
within those four walls\ neither asking for, nor wanting, the "wide cold
world" without. She was reading--at least she held a book in her hand--a
gorgeously bound little volume it was--nor did the dark ribbon of velvet
fringed with gold that marked her place fail to contrast well with the
snowy whiteness of the wrist it fell upon.

Her attitude, as she lay, rather than sat, in a deep armchair, was
faultless in its grace; and even the tiny foot, which rested on a little
Blenheim spaniel as he lay sleeping on the hearth-rug, had a certain air
of homelike ease that made the scene a picture, and to a suggestive mind
might have given it a story. And yet, for all the sleepy softness of
those half-drooped lids, for all that voluptuous ease of every lineament
and limb, the heart within was watchful and waking. Not a sound upon the
stairs, not a voice, not a footstep, that did not make its pulses beat
faster and fuller.

Two o'clock struck, and the great bell rang out which called the guests
to luncheon, a meal at which Cashel never appeared; and now Olivia
listened to the sounds of merry laughter that floated along the
corridors, and faded away in the distance, as group after group passed
downstairs, and at last, all was silent again. Where was he? Why did he
not come? she asked herself again and again. Her mamma and sister
had purposely stayed away from luncheon to receive him; for so it was
arranged, that she herself should first see Cashel alone, and afterwards
be joined by the others--and yet he came not!

The half-hour chimed, and Olivia looked up at the French clock upon
the mantelpiece with amazement. Surely there had been more than thirty
minutes since she heard it last; and the little Cupid on the top, who,
with full-stretched bow and fixed eye, seemed bent on mischief--silly
fool! like herself, there was no mark to shoot at! She sighed; it was
not a deep sigh, nor a sad one; nor was it the wearisome expression of
listlessness; nor was it the tribute paid to some half-called up
memory. It was none of these; though perhaps each entered into it as an
ingredient. But what right have we to analyze its meaning, or ask how
much of hope or fear it contained?--what portion of regret for one she
was about to desert?--what shame for the faithlessness? Ay, what shame!

Coquetry is no virtue; but most certainly it is not the wholesale
corrupter some moralists would ma