sper of hope than the calm of assured reality. For the moment,
unreasonable as it seemed, something made him blissfully sure of her
love, spite of the rebuffs and coldness she had compelled him to endure.

"This is the place, sir!" suddenly called his driver, stopping the
horses in front of a stately avenue of trees, and jumping down to open
the gates.

"You need not drive in; you may wait here."

This, then, was her home. He took in the exquisite beauty of the place
with a keen pleasure. It was right that all things sweet and fine should
be about her; he had before known that they were, but it delighted him
to see them with his own eyes. Walking slowly towards the
house,--slowly, for he was both impelled and retarded by the conflicting
feelings that mastered him,--he heard her voice at a little distance,
singing; and directly she came out of a by-path, and faced him. He need
not have feared the meeting; at least, any display of emotion; she gave
no opportunity for any such thing.

A frankly extended hand,--an easy "Good afternoon, Mr. Surrey!" That was
all. It was a cool, beautiful room into which she ushered him; a room
filled with an atmosphere of peace, but which was anything but peaceful
to him. He was restless, nervous; eager and excited, or absent and
still. He determined to master his emotion, and give no outward sign of
the tempest raging within.

At the instant of this conclusion his eye was caught by an exquisite
portrait miniature upon an easel near him. Bending over it, taking it
into his hands, his eyes went to and fro from the pictured face to the
human one, tracing the likeness in each. Marking his interest, Francesca
said, "It is my mother."

"If the eyes were dark, this would be your veritable image."

"Or, if mine were blue, I should be a portrait of mamma, which would be
better."

"Better?"

"Yes." She was looking at the picture with weary eyes, which he could
not see. "I had rather be the shadow of her than the reality of myself:
an absurd fancy!" she added, with a smile, suddenly remembering herself.

"I would it were true!" he exclaimed.

She looked a surprised inquiry. His thought was, "for then I should
steal you, and wear you always on my heart." But of course he could
speak no such lover's nonsense; so he said, "Because of the fitness of
things; you wished to be a shadow, which is immaterial, and hence of the
substance of angels."

Truly he was improving. His effort to betray no