erent and has a way of carrying herself that
is almost noble, there is certainly grief in her eye and care on her
brow. I see it when she is alone, or rather before she becomes aware of
another's presence; I see it when she is with her mother; but when
strangers come in or she assembles with the rest of the household in the
parlor or at the table, then it vanishes, and a sweet charm comes that
reminds me--

But this is folly, sheer folly. How could she look like Mrs. Urquhart?
Imagination carries me too far. Equal innocence and a like gentle temper
have produced a like result in sweetening the expression. That is all,
and yet I remember the one woman when I look at the other, and shudder;
for the woman who calls this child daughter has her eye on the oak
parlor, and may meditate evil--must, if she knows its secret and yet
wishes to enter it. But my imagination is carrying me too far again.
This woman, whatever her faults, loves her daughter, and where love is
there cannot be danger. Yet I shudder.

Madame Letellier merits the description of an abler pen than mine. I
like her, and I hate her. I admire her, and I fear her. I obey her, and
yet hold myself in readiness for rebellion, if only to prove to myself
that I will be strong when the time comes; that no influence, however
exerted, or however hidden under winning smiles or quietly controlling
glances, shall have power to move me from what I may consider my duty,
or from the exercise of such vigilance as my secret fears seem to
demand. I hate her; let me remember that. And I distrust her. She is
here for evil, and her eye is on the oak parlor. Though it is locked and
the key hidden on my person, she will find means to possess herself of
that key and open that door. How? We will see. Meantime all this is not
a description of Madame Letellier.

She is finely formed; she is graceful; she is youthful. She dresses with
a taste that must always make her conspicuous wherever she may be. You
could not enter a room in which she was without seeing her, for her
glance has a strange power that irresistibly draws your glance to it,
though her eyes are lambent rather than brilliant, and if large, rarely
opened to their full extent. Her complexion is dark; that is, in
comparison with her daughter's, which is of a marble-like purity. But it
has strange flushes in it, and at times seems almost to sparkle. Her
hair is brown, and worn high, with a great comb in it, setting off the
con