eheld him now;--was it safe for her to sit there gazing at
that likeness?

The old servant, who now and then walked up and down the hall,
perceiving that the stranger was sitting quiet, with her eyes
generally in one direction, was satisfied that she should prove so
patient with this long delay in his mistress's return. He knew not
what occupied her eyes or thoughts,--fancied, may-be, that she was
numbering the books of the library, or engaged in some equally
diverting occupation.

At last came Madeline.

Learning from the servant in the hall that a young person waited her
return, and had waited half the day, with a patience that was
evidently proof against time, the lady proceeded at once to the
library.

Elizabeth, who heard the arrival, and the approach, arose and stood,
waiting the meeting. In her hand she held a paper scroll, the
drawing of Foray, which she had brought to aid her in this interview.

It was, indeed, a royal person upon whom the eyes of the Drummer's
Daughter fell,--a person whose dignity and grace held at a distance
even those whom they attracted. Nothing short of reverence could
have dictated the movement of any noble mind that had to do with her.
She was the Sister of Mercy, whom the whole country round about knew
for the most righteous Desperiers of them all. The noble line was
ending nobly in her pure and lofty and most gracious womanhood. She
was the star of society, if the "sweet influences" might only be
bound,--no comet, no fiery splendor of intellect or passion, but a
pure light that would still shine through all paling, and enter with
its own distinct ray into the last absorption.

She approached to meet her guest with a kind and frank expression of
regret that she should have been kept waiting so long.

Beholding her, remembering him, strong even through her sense of
impotence, Elizabeth unrolled the pencilling of Foray. The moment
during which she was thus occupied passed in silence; then she
looked up and spoke, with the coldness in which her embarrassment and
emotion sought disguise.

"I came here with a message,--on an errand," said she; "and I have
come so far, that, finding myself really in this house, I did not
like to leave it again till I had seen the lady I sought. I knew
that it would give you pain, if you could know the whole."

"Tell me the whole," was the reply, spoken with evident and
encouraging approval of the stranger's mode of address; and the lady
sat down