. Truth, purity, holiness, something scarcely of
this nether world, yet blended indescribably with all a woman's
nature, had rested there, attracting the most unobservant, and
riveting all whose own hearts contained a spark of the same lofty
attributes. Her dress, too, was peculiar--a full loose petticoat of
dark blue silk, reaching only to the ankle, and so displaying the
beautifully-shaped foot; a jacket of pale yellow, the texture seeming
of the finest woven wool, reaching to the throat; with sleeves tight
on the shoulders, but falling in wide folds as low as the wrist, and
so with every movement displaying the round soft arm beneath. An
antique brooch of curiously wrought silver confined the jacket at the
throat. The collar, made either to stand up or fall, was this evening
unclosed and thrown black, its silver fringe gleaming through the
clustering tresses that fell in all their native richness and raven
blackness over her shoulders, parted and braided on her brow, so as to
heighten the chaste and classic expression of her features.

On a stranger that beautiful vision must have burst with bewildering
power: to Arthur Stanley she united _memory_ with _being_, the _past_
with the _present_, with such an intensity of emotion, that for a few
minutes his very breath was impeded. She turned, without seeing him,
in a contrary direction; and the movement roused him.

"Marie!" he passionately exclaimed, flinging himself directly in her
path, and startling her so painfully, that though there was a strong
and visible effort at self-control, she must have fallen had he not
caught her in his arms. There was an effort to break from his hold, a
murmured exclamation, in which terror, astonishment, and yet joy, were
painfully mingled, and then the heroine gave place to the woman, for
her head sunk on his shoulder and she burst into tears.

Time passed. Nearly an hour from that strange meeting, and still they
were together; but no joy, nor even hope was on the countenance of
either. At first, Arthur had alluded to their hours of happy yet
unconfessed affection, when both had felt, intuitively, that they were
all in all to each other, though not a syllable of love had passed
their lips; on the sweet memories of those blissful hours, so brief,
so fleeting, but still Marie wept: the memory seemed anguish more than
joy. And then he spoke of returned affection, as avowed by her, when
his fond words had called it forth; and shuddered a