ace is small, and mood concentrative
rather than erratic.

Let us pass over, then, five eventful years, during which the sorrows
and changes I have spoken of had taken place, and Wentworth had fixed
his home in the vicinity of San Francisco.

I had heard of Bertie in the interval as a successful _debutante_ as a
reader of Shakespeare, and had received her sparse and sparkling letters
confirming report, truly "angel visits, few and far between."

At last one came announcing her intention of visiting California
professionally, and sojourning beneath my roof while in San Francisco.
It was to be a stay of several weeks.

She was accompanied and sometimes assisted by Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer,
professional readers both--the last distinguished more for grace and
beauty, even though now on the wane of life, than she ever had been for
talent, but eminently fitted, both by education and character, for a
guide and companion.

An English maid, as perfect as an automaton in her training and
regularity, accompanied Bertie, to whom were confided all details of
dress, all keys and jewels, with entire confidence and safety. An
elaborate doll seemed the red-and-white and stupidly-staring Euphemia.
Yet was she adroit, obedient, and expert, just to move in the groove of
her requirements.

I have spoken only of her accessories; but now for Bertie herself.

"Is she not magnificent?" was my exclamation when alone with my husband
on the night of her arrival, after our guest, with her sparkling face
and conversation, her superb toilet and bearing, her graceful,
nymph-like walk, had retired to her chamber, attended by the mechanical
"Miss Euphemia."

The Mortimers, with their children and servants, remained at the
principal hotel.

"The very word for her," he replied; "only that and nothing more."

"Wardour!"

"Well, love!"

"How little enthusiasm you possess about the beautiful! Now, if there
were question of a new railroad-bridge, the vocabulary would have been
exhausted."

"What would you have me say, dear? Is not that word a very comprehensive
one? The lady above-stairs is indeed magnificent; but, Miriam, where is
Bertie?" and he laughed.

"Ah! I understand; you find her artificial."

"She is too fine an actress for that, Miriam; only transfigured."

"Yes, I see what you mean" (sadly). "Bertie _is_ wholly changed. Whom
does she resemble, Wardour? What queen, bethink you, whose likeness you
have seen? Not Mary Queen of Scot