ork steamer, detained by the heavy fog of the night before, now
came in unwonted daylight up the bay. At the first glimpse, Harry and
the boys pushed off in the row-boat; for, as one of the children said,
anybody who had been to Venice would naturally wish to come to the very
house in a gondola. In another half-hour there was a great entanglement
of embraces at the water-side, for the guests had landed.

Malbone's self-poised easy grace was the same as ever; his
chestnut-brown eyes were as winning, his features as handsome; his
complexion, too clearly pink for a man, had a sea bronze upon it: he was
the same Philip who had left home, though with some added lines of care.
But in the brilliant little fairy beside him all looked in vain for the
Emilia they remembered as a child. Her eyes were more beautiful than
ever,--the darkest violet eyes, that grew luminous with thought and
almost black with sorrow. Her gypsy taste, as everybody used to call it,
still showed itself in the scarlet and dark blue of her dress; but the
clouded gypsy tint had gone from her cheek, and in its place shone a
deep carnation, so hard and brilliant that it appeared to be enamelled
on the surface, yet so firm and deep-dyed that it seemed as if not even
death could ever blanch it. There is a kind of beauty that seems made to
be painted on ivory, and such was hers. Only the microscopic pencil of
a miniature-painter could portray those slender eyebrows, that arched
caressingly over the beautiful eyes,--or the silky hair of darkest
chestnut that crept in a wavy line along the temples, as if longing to
meet the brows,--or those unequalled lashes! "Unnecessarily long," Aunt
Jane afterwards pronounced them; while Kate had to admit that they did
indeed give Emilia an overdressed look at breakfast, and that she ought
to have a less showy set to match her morning costume.

But what was most irresistible about Emilia,--that which we all noticed
in this interview, and which haunted us all thenceforward,--was a
certain wild, entangled look she wore, as of some untamed out-door
thing, and a kind of pathetic lost sweetness in her voice, which made
her at once and forever a heroine of romance with the children. Yet
she scarcely seemed to heed their existence, and only submitted to the
kisses of Hope and Kate as if that were a part of the price of coming
home, and she must pay it.

Had she been alone, there might have been an awkward pause; for if you
expect a c