ramichi, at the age
of sixteen, would at once recognize the lady feeding the fawn as the
same. At a second glance, the hair would be seen to have grown a shade
darker and a gleam more shining, the large sloe-colored eyes more
thoughtful and dreamy, the complexion of a more transparent
whiteness, and the figure to have ripened into a fuller and richer
symmetry.

Nothing could surpass the exquisite moulding and fairness of the arm
extended alternately to feed and caress the pet animal before her. No
wonder the little creature looked up at her with its soft, almost
human eyes, and gazed in her face, as if half bewildered by her
beauty.

With a proud and stately grace, she moved over the sward, up the
marble steps and passed through the great saloon of the chateau. Was
there not a slight air of indifference and _ennui_ in her face and
movements? Possibly. It has been noticed that people who are loved,
petted, and admired, who have plenty of gold and jewels, who sit at
feasts made for princes, and have the grand shine of splendor always
gleaming round them, are more likely to carry that weary aspect, than
others. Queens even do not look pleased and happy more than half the
time. The fact was, that Adele of Miramichi, having spent much time in
Paris, during the last three years, where she had been greatly
admired, now that the novelty was over, had become tired of playing a
part in the pageantry of courtly life and longed for something more
substantial.

As she crossed the saloon, a page informed her that Mrs. Dubois wished
her presence in the library. She immediately obeyed the summons.

This apartment, one of the pleasantest in the chateau, was a favorite
with the Count; and as age and infirmity crept upon him, he grew more
and more attached to it, and was accustomed to spend there the greater
part of his time, amused and soothed by the attentions of Mrs. Dubois
and Adele. It was a lofty, but not very large apartment, the walls
nearly covered with bookcases of oak, carved in quaint old patterns
and filled with choice books in various languages. Several finely
executed statues were placed in niches, and one large picture, by
Rubens, gathered a stream of sunshine upon its gorgeous canvas.

The Count was sitting, buried in the purple cushions of an easy-chair,
fast asleep, and as Adele entered the room, her mother held up her
finger, warningly.

"_Ma chere_", said Mrs. Dubois, in a low tone, "here is a packet of
lette