he sat, bent over this. "I was happier, then," said he, with a sigh that
seemed to rise from his very heart,--"far happier! But would it have
lasted? that is the question. Would mere love have compensated for
thwarted ambition, delusive hope, and poverty? How should I have borne
continued reverses?"

The door opened, and Lady Kilgoff entered; not seeing him, nor expecting
any one in the apartment, she was humming an opera air, when suddenly
she perceived him.

"Mr. Linton here? This is a surprise indeed!" exclaimed she, as, drawing
herself proudly up, she seemed to question the reason of his presence.

"I beg you will forgive an intrusion which was not of my seeking. I came
to pay my respects to Lord Kilgoff, and his servant showed me into this
chamber until his Lordship should be ready to receive me."

"Won't you be seated, sir?" said she, with an accent which it would be
difficult to say whether it implied an invitation or the opposite.

Few men had more self-possession than Linton, fewer still knew better
how to construe a mere accent, look, or a gesture; and yet, he stood
now, uncertain and undecided how to act. Meanwhile Lady Kilgoff,
arranging the frame of her embroidery, took her seat near the window.

"Penelope must have worked in Berlin wool, I 'm certain," said Linton,
as he approached where she sat. "These wonderful tissues seem never to
finish."

"In that lies their great merit," replied she, smiling; "it is sometimes
useful to have an occupation whose monotony disposes to thought, even
when the thoughts themselves are not all pleasurable."

"I should have fancied that monotony would dispose to brooding," said
he, slowly.

"Perhaps it may, now and then," said she, carelessly. "Life, like
climate, should not be all sunshine;" and then, as if wishing to change
the theme, she added, "you have been absent a day or two?"

"Yes; an unexpected piece of fortune has befallen me. I find myself the
heir of a considerable property, just as I have reached that point in
life when wealth has no charm for me! There was a time when--but, no
matter; regrets are half-brother to cowardice."

"We can no more help one than the other, occasionally," said she, with a
faint sigh; and both were silent for some time.

"Is not that tulip somewhat too florid?" said he, stooping over her
embroidery.

"That tulip is a poppy, Mr. Linton."

"What a natural mistake, after all!" said he. "How many human tulips
who not only lo