rangements were
making, but with a care to avoid disturbing him that rendered them hardly
audible. Presently the step approached him again, the breathing was
quicker, though gentle, the handkerchief was moved, but the hand was with
drawn hastily as if afraid of itself. Another effort was successful, and
Denbigh stole a glance through his dark lashes, on the figure of Emily as
she-stood over him in the fulness of her charms, and with a face in which
glowed an interest he had never witnessed in it before. It undoubtedly was
_gratitude_. For a moment she gazed on him, as her color increased in
richness. His hand was carelessly thrown over an arm of the sofa; she
stooped towards it with her face gently, but with an air of modesty that
shone in her very figure. Denbigh felt the warmth of her breath, but her
lips did not touch it. Had he been inclined to judge the actions of Emily
Moseley harshly, it were impossible to mistake the movement for anything
but the impulse of natural feeling. There was a pledge of innocence, of
modesty in her countenance, that would have prevented any misconstruction;
and he continued quietly awaiting what the preparations on her little
mahogany secretary were intended for.

Mrs. Wilson entertained a great abhorrence of what is commonly called
accomplishments in a woman; she knew that too much of that precious time
which could never be recalled, was thrown away in endeavoring to acquire a
smattering in what, if known, could never be of use to the party, and what
can never be well known but to a few, whom nature and long practice have
enabled to conquer. Yet as her niece had early manifested a taste for
painting, and a vivid perception of the beauties of nature, her
inclination had been indulged, and Emily Moseley sketched with neatness
and accuracy, and with great readiness. It would have been no subject of
surprise, had admiration, or some more powerful feeling, betrayed to the
artist, on this occasion, the deception the young man was practising. She
had entered the room from her walk, warm and careless; her hair, than
which none was more beautiful, had strayed on her shoulders, freed, from
the confinement of the comb, and a lock was finely contrasted to the rich
color of a cheek that almost burnt with the exercise and the excitement.
Her dress, white as the first snow of the winter; her looks, as she now
turned them on the face of the sleeper, and betrayed by their animation
the success of her ar