s I had been vainly fluttering.

Shall I tell how foolish I had been? Though I said to myself a hundred
times, "he will not look at me, or notice me at all," I had taken
unusual pains with my dress, which though still characterized with the
simplicity of mourning, was relieved of its severity of outline. A fall
of lace softened the bands of the neck and arms, which were embellished
by a necklace and bracelets, which I valued more than any earthly
possession. They were the gift of Mrs. Linwood, who, having won from the
grave a portion of my mother's beautiful dark hair, had it wrought with
exquisite skill, and set in massy gold, as memorials of love stronger
than death. Thus doubly precious, I cherished them as holy amulets, made
sacred by the living as well as the dead. Edith had woven in my hair
some scarlet geraniums, my favorite flower. Though not very elaborately
adorned, I had an impression I was looking my best, and I could not help
thinking while I sat half veiled by foliage, half gilded by light, how
romantic it would be, if a magnificent stranger should suddenly approach
and as suddenly draw back, on seeing my dark, waving hair, instead of
the golden locks of Edith. I became so absorbed in painting this little
scene, which enlarged and glowed under the pencil of imagination, that I
did not hear the opening of the gate or footsteps crossing the lawn. I
thought a shadow passed over the sunshine. The figure of a stranger
stood between me and the glowing west. I started up with an
irrepressible exclamation. I knew, at the first glance, that it was
Ernest Linwood, the living embodiment of that haunting image, so long
drawn on my youthful fancy. I should have known him in the farthest
isles of the ocean, from the painting in the library, the descriptions
of Edith, and the sketches of my own imagination. His complexion had the
pale, transparent darkness of eastern climes, and his eye a kind of
shadowy splendor, impossible to describe, but which reminded me at once
of his mother's similitude of the "clouded star." He was not above the
common height of man, yet he gave me an impression of power and dignity,
such as mere physical force could never inspire.

"Is this Grandison Place? my home?" he asked, lifting his hat with
gentlemanly grace from his brows. His voice, too, had that cultivated,
well-modulated tone, which always marks the gentleman.

"It is, sir," I answered, trying to speak without embarrassment. "Mr.
Li