rst enjoyment, it would be the
sight of Cecily's."

Cecily was sitting by Miriam, whose hand she had only just
relinquished. Her anxious and affectionate inquiries moved Miriam to a
smile which seemed rather of indulgence than warm kindness.

"How little we thought where our next meeting would be!" Cecily was
saying, when the eyes of the others turned upon her at her aunt's
remark.

Noble beauty can scarcely be dissociated from harmony of utterance;
voice and visage are the correspondent means whereby spirit addresses
itself to the ear and eye. One who had heard Cecily Doran speaking
where he could not see her, must have turned in that direction, have
listened eagerly for the sounds to repeat themselves, and then have
moved forward to discover the speaker. The divinest singer may leave
one unaffected by the tone of her speech. Cecily could not sing, but
her voice declared her of those who think in song, whose minds are
modulated to the poetry, not to the prose, of life.

Her enunciation had the peculiar finish which is acquired in
intercourse with the best cosmopolitan society, the best in a worthy
sense. Four years ago, when she left Lancashire, she had a touch of
provincial accent,--Miriam, though she spoke well, was not wholly free
from it,--but now it was impossible to discover by listening to her
from what part of England she came. Mrs. Lessingham, whose admirable
tact and adaptability rendered her unimpeachable in such details, had
devoted herself with artistic zeal to her niece's training for the
world; the pupil's natural aptitude ensured perfection in the result.
Cecily's manner accorded with her utterance; it had every charm
derivable from youth, yet nothing of immaturity. She was as completely
at her ease as Mrs. Lessingham, and as much more graceful in her
self-control as the advantages of nature made inevitable.

Miriam looked very cold, very severe, very English, by the side of this
brilliant girl. The thinness and pallor of her features became more
noticeable; the provincial faults of her dress were painfully obvious.
Cecily was not robust, but her form lacked no development appropriate
to her years, and its beauty was displayed by Parisian handiwork. In
this respect, too, she had changed remarkably since Miriam last saw
her, when she was such a frail child. Her hair of dark gold showed
itself beneath a hat which Eleanor Spence kept regarding with frank
admiration, so novel it was in style, and so p