lectual forehead, and the most finely chiselled
mouth, most expressive of all his feelings; his lips parted in such
loving admiration of his mother and closed so lovingly upon her own.
After a profound bow to myself and a hearty grasp of the hand, he drew
her to the crimson cushions of a tete-a-tete standing near, and passing
his arm around her held her closely to him, as if afraid he would lose
her. I envied her, and any heart might well envy the passionate devotion
of a son like Louis Robert Desmonde.

I wanted to leave them to themselves, but as I could not do this, I
covered my head, which really ached now, with my hands, and tried hard
not to listen to their audible conversation, but from that time I
appreciated what was meant by the manly love of this son, differing so
widely from anything I had ever before known. Like his mother, he had
great tact, and suited himself exactly to conditions and persons.

I moved as in a dream. Everything that wealth could lavish on a home was
here. I occupied Clara's own room with her, and it seemed at night as if
I lay in a fairy chamber; there were silken draperies of delicate blue,
a soft velvety carpet whose ground was the same beautiful blue, covered
with vines like veins traced through it, and massive furniture with
antique carving, and everything in such exquisite taste, even to the
decorated toilette set on the bureau. Everything I thought was in
perfect correspondence except the face on my lace-fringed pillow. I
seemed so sadly out of place. I wondered if Clara was really contented
with her humbly-furnished room at our house. Callers came as she had
predicted, and it was all in vain my trying to keep out of the sight of
those "_city people_." Insisting on my presence, and knowing well I
should escape to our room if left by myself, Louis was authorized to
guard me, and I had no chance of escape; I felt myself an intruder upon
his time, every moment until during the last evenings of my stay, when
in the lighted parlors quite a happy company gathered. I then had an
opportunity of seeing a little of his thought, running as an
undercurrent to his nature. Clara had been singing with such sweetness
of expression and pathetic emphasis, that my eyes were filled with tears
of emotion. Miss Lear, a young lady friend, followed her, and sang with
such a shrill voice, such unprecedented flying about among the octaves,
that it shocked me through every nerve, and I trembled visibly and
u