THE CITY COTTAGE.
Alas, that woman's love should cling
To hearts that never feel its worth,
As prairie roses creep and fling
Their richest bloom upon the earth.
Overlooking one of those small parks or squares that lie in the heart of
our city like tufts of wild flowers in a desert, stands one of those
miniature palaces, too small for the very wealthy, and too beautiful in
its appointments for any idea but that of perfect taste, which wealth
does not always give. A cottage house it was, or rather an exquisite
mockery of what one sees named as cottages in the country. The front, of
a pale stone color, was so ornamented and netted over with the lace-work
of iron balconies and window-gratings, that it had all the elegance of a
city mansion, with much of the rustic beauty one sees in a rural
dwelling.
A little court, full of flowers, lay in front, with a miniature fountain
throwing up a slender column of water from the centre of a tiny
grass-plat, that, in the pure dampness always raining over it, lay like
a mass of crushed emeralds hidden among the flowers. The netted
iron-work that hung around the doors, the windows, and fringed the
eaves, as it were, with a valance of massive lace, was luxuriously
interwoven with creeping plants. Prairie roses, crimson and white, clung
around the lower balconies. Ipomas wove a profusion of their great
purple and rosy bells around the upper windows; cypress vines, with
their small crimson bells; petunias of every tint; rich passion flowers,
and verbenas with their leaves hidden in the light balconies, wove and
twined themselves with the coarser vines, blossoming each in its turn,
and filling the leaves with their gorgeous tints. Crimson and fragrant
honeysuckles twined in massive wreaths up to the very roof, where they
grew and blossomed in the lattice-work, now in masses, now spreading
out like an embroidery, and everywhere loading the atmosphere with
fragrance.
The cool, bell-like dropping of the fountain, that always kept the
flowers fresh; the fragrance of half a dozen orange trees, snowy with
blossoms and golden with heavy fruit; the gleam of white lilies; the
glow of roses, and the graceful sway of a slender labarnum tree, all
crowded into one little nook scarcely large enough for the
pleasure-grounds of a fairy, were enough to draw general attention to
the house, though another and still more beautiful object had never
presented itself at the window.
On a moonlight evening, especially when a sort of pearly veil fell upon
the little flower nook, an air of quiet beauty impossible to describe,
rested around this dwelling--beauty not the less striking that it was so
still, so lost in profound repose, that the house might have been deemed
uninhabited but for the gleam of light that occasionally broke through
the vines about one or another of the windows. Sometimes it might be
seen struggling through the roses around the lower balcony, but far
oftener it came in faint gleams from a window in the upper story, and at
such times the shadow of a person stooping over a book, or lost in deep
thought, might be seen through the muslin curtains.
No sashes, flung open in the carelessness of domestic enjoyment, were
ever seen in the dwelling; no voices of happy childhood were ever heard
to ring through those clustering vines. Sometimes a young female would
steal timidly out upon the balconies, and return again, like a bird
afraid to be detected beyond the door of its cage. Sometimes an old lady
in mourning might be seen passing in and out, as if occupied with some
slight household responsibility. This was all the neighborhood ever knew
of the cottage or its inmates. The face of the younger female, though
always beautiful, was not always the same, but no person knew when one
disappeared and another took her place.
The cottage had been built by a private gentleman, and its first
occupant was the old lady. She might have been his mother, his tenant,
or his housekeeper, no one could decide her exact position. He seldom
visited the house. Sometimes during months together he never crossed the
threshold. But the old lady was always there, scarcely ever without a
young and lovely companion; and, what seemed most singular, year after
year passed and her mourning garments were never changed.
Servants, the universal channel through which domestic gossip circulates
in the basement strata of social life, were never seen in the cottage.
An old colored woman came two or three times a week and performed
certain household duties; but she spoke only in a foreign language, and
probably had been selected for that very reason. Thus all the usual
avenues of intelligence were closed around the cottage. True, a colored
man came occasionally to prune and trim the little flower nook, but he
was never seen to enter the house, and appeared to be profoundly
ignorant of its history and its inmates. Some of the most curious had
ventured far enough into the fairy garden to read the name on a silver
plate within the latticed entrance. It was a single name, and seemed to
be foreign; at any rate, it had no familiar sound to those who read it,
and whether it belonged to the owner of the cottage or the old lady,
still continued a mystery.
Thus the cottage remained a tiny palace, more isolated amid the
surrounding dwellings than it could have been if buried in the green
depths of the country. But at the season when our story commences, the
profound quietude of the place was broken by the appearance of a new
inmate. A fair young girl about this time was often noticed early in the
morning, and sometimes after dusk hovering about the little fountain, as
if enticed there by the scent of the orange trees; still, though her
white garments were often seen fluttering amid the shrubbery, which she
seemed to haunt with the shy timidity of a wild bird, few persons ever
obtained a distinct view of her features.
On the night, and at the very hour when Ada Leicester and Jacob Strong
met beneath the old elm tree in sight of the farm-house which had once
sheltered them, two men gently approached this cottage and paused before
the gate. This was nothing singular, for it was no unusual thing, when
that lovely fountain was tossing its cool shower of water-drops into the
air, and the flowers were bathed in the moonlight, for persons to pause
in their evening walk and wonder at the gem-like beauty of the place.
But these two persons seemed about to enter the little gate. One held
the latch in his hand, and appeared to hesitate only while he examined
the windows of the dwelling. The other younger by far and more
enthusiastic, grasped the iron railing with one hand, while he leaned
over and inhaled the rich fragrance of the flower garden with intense
gratification.
"Come," said Leicester, gently opening the gate, "I see a light in the
lower rooms--let us go in!"
"What, here? Is it here you are taking me?" cried the youth, in accents
of joyful surprise--"how beautiful--how very, very beautiful. It must be
some queen of the fairies you are leading me to!"
"You like the house then?" said Leicester, in his usual calm voice,
gently advancing along the walk. "It does look well just now, with the
moonlight falling through the leaves, but these things become tiresome
after a while!"
"Tiresome!" exclaimed the youth, casting his glance around. "Tiresome!"
"I much doubt," added Leicester, turning as he spoke, and gliding, as if
unconsciously, along the white gravel walk that curved around the
fountain--"I much doubt if any thing continues to give entire
satisfaction, even the efforts of our own mind, or the work of our own
hands, after it is once completed. It is the progress, the love of
change, the curiosity to see how this touch will affect the whole, that
gives zest to enjoyment in such things. I can fancy the owner of this
faultless little place now becoming weary of its prettiness."
"Weary of a place like this--why the angels might think themselves at
home in it!"
"They would find out their mistake, I fancy!"
As Leicester uttered these words the moonlight fell full upon his face,
and the worm-like curl of his lip which the light revealed, had
something unpleasant in it. The youth happened to look up at the moment,
and a sharp revulsion came over his feelings. For the moment he fell
into thought, and when he spoke, the change in his spirit was very
evident.
"I can imagine nothing that is not pure and good, almost as the angels
themselves, living here!" he said, half timidly, as if he feared the
scoff that might follow his words.
"We shall see," answered Leicester, breaking a cluster of orange flowers
from one of the plants. He was about to fasten the fragrant sprig in his
button-hole, but some after-thought came over him, such as often
regulated his most trivial actions, and he gave the branch to his
companion.
"Put it in your bosom," he said, with a sort of jeering good humor, as
one trifles with a child: "who knows but it may win your first
conquest?"
The youth took the blossoms, but held them carelessly in his hand. There
was something in Leicester's tone that wounded his self-love; and
without reply he moved from the fountain. They ascended to the richly
latticed entrance, and Leicester touched the bell knob.
The door was opened by a quiet, pale old lady, who gravely bent her head
as she recognised Leicester. After one glance of surprise at his young
companion, which certainly had no pleasure blended with it, she led the
way into a small parlor.
Nothing could be more exquisitely chaste than that little room. The
ceilings and the enamelled walls were spotless as crusted snow, and like
snow was the light cornice of grape leaves and fruit, that scarcely
seemed to touch the ceiling around which they were entwined. No
glittering chandelier, no gilded cornices or gorgeous carpets disturbed
the pure harmony of this little room; delicate India matting covered the
floor; the chairs, divans and couches were of pure white enamel.
Curtains of soft, delicate lace, embroidered, as it were, with
snow-flakes, draped the sashes. Those at the bay window, which opened on
the flower-garden, were held apart by two small statues of Parian marble
that stood guarding the tiny alcove, half veiled in clouds of
transparent lace.
Upon a massive table of pure alabaster, inlaid with softly clouded
agate, stood a Grecian vase, in which a lamp was burning, and through
its sculpture poured a subdued light that seemed but a more lustrous
kindling of the moonbeams that lay around the dwelling.
The youth had not expressed himself amiss. It did seem as if an angel
might have mistaken this dwelling, so chaste, so tranquilly cool, for
his permanent home. The clouds of Heaven did not seem more free from
earthly taint than everything within it. Robert paused at the threshold;
a vague feeling of self-distrust came over him. It seemed as if his
presence would soil the mysterious purity of the room. The old lady,
with her grave face and black garments, was so at variance with the
dwelling, that the very sight of her moving so noiselessly across the
room chilled him to the heart.
Leicester sat down on a divan near the window.
"Tell Florence I am here!" he said, addressing the old lady.
For a moment the lady hesitated; then, without having spoken a word, she
went out. Directly there was a faint rustling sound on the stairs, a
quick, light footstep near the door, and with every appearance of eager
haste a young girl entered the room. A morning dress of white muslin,
edged with a profusion of delicate lace, clad her slender form from head
to foot; a tiny cameo of blood-red coral fastened the robe at her
throat, and this was all the ornament visible upon her person.
She entered the room in breathless haste, her dark eyes sparkling, her
cheeks warm with a rich crimson, and with both hands extended,
approached Leicester. Before she reached the divan the consciousness
that a stranger was present fell upon her. She paused, her hands fell,
and all the beautiful gladness faded from her countenance.
"A young friend of mine," said Leicester, with an indolent wave of the
hand toward Robert. "The evening was so fine, we have been rambling in
the park, and being near, dropped in to rest awhile."
The young lady turned with a very slight inclination, and Robert saw the
face he had so admired in Leicester's chamber, the beautiful, living
original of a picture still engraven on his heart. The surprise was
overpowering. He could not speak; and Leicester, who loved to study the
human heart in its tumults, smiled softly as he marked the change upon
his features.
As if overcome by the presence of a stranger, the young lady sat down
near the divan which Leicester occupied. The color had left her cheek;
and Robert, who was gazing earnestly upon her, thought that he could see
tears gathering in her eyes.
"It is a long time since you have been here," she said, in a low voice,
bending with a timid air toward Leicester. "I--I--that is, we had begun
to think you had forgotten us."
"No, I have been very busy, that is all!" answered Leicester,
carelessly. "I sent once or twice some books and things--did you get
them?"
"Yes; thank you very much--but for them I should have been more sad
than, than--"
She checked herself, in obedience to the quick glance that he cast upon
her; but, spite of the effort, a sound of rising tears was in her voice;
the poor girl seemed completely unnerved with some sudden
disappointment.
"And your lessons, Florence, how do you get along with them?"
"I cannot study," answered the girl, shaking her head mournfully.
"Indeed I cannot, I am so, so----"
"Homesick!" said Leicester, quietly interrupting her. "Is that it?"
"Homesick!" repeated the girl, with a faint shudder. "No, I shall never
be that!"
"Well--well, you must learn to apply yourself," rejoined Leicester,
with an affectation of paternal interest; "we must have a good report of
your progress to transmit when your father writes."
Florence turned very white, and, hastily rising, lifted the lace
drapery, and concealing herself in the recess behind, seemed to be
gazing out upon the flower-garden. A faint sound now and then broke from
the recess; and Robert, who keenly watched every movement, fancied that
she must be weeping.
Leicester arose, and sauntering to the window, glided behind the lace. A
few smothered words were uttered in what Robert thought to be a tone of
suppressed reproof, then he came into the room again, making some
careless observation about the beauty of the night. Florence followed
directly, and took her old seat with a drooping and downcast air, that
filled the youth with vague compassion.
"Now that we are upon this subject," said Leicester, quietly resuming
the conversation, "you should, above all things, attend to your drawing,
my dear young lady. I know it is difficult to obtain really competent
masters; but here is my young friend, who has practised much, and has
decided genius in the arts; he will be delighted to give you a lesson
now and then."
Florence lifted her eyes suddenly to the face of the youth. She saw him
start and change countenance, as if from some vivid emotion. A faint
glow tinged her own cheek, and, as it were, obeying the glance of
Leicester's eye, which she felt without seeing, she murmured some gentle
words of acknowledgment.
"I shall be most happy," said the poor youth, blushing, and all in a
glow of joyous embarrassment--"that is, if I thought--if I dreamed that
my imperfect knowledge--that--that any little talent of mine could be of
service."
"Of course it will!" said Leicester, quietly interrupting him; "do you
not see that Miss Craft is delighted with the arrangement? I was sure
that it would give her pleasure!"
Florence turned her dark eyes on the speaker with a look of gratitude
that might have warmed a heart of marble.
"Ah, how kind you are to think of me thus!" she said, in a low tone,
that, sweet as it was, sent a painful thrill through the listener. "I
was afraid that you had forgotten those things that I desire most."
"It is always the way with very young ladies; they are sure to think a
guardian too exacting or too negligent," said Leicester, with a smile.
Again Florence raised her eyes to his face, with a look of vague
astonishment; she seemed utterly at a loss to comprehend him, and though
a faint smile fluttered on her lip, she seemed ready to burst into
tears.
You should have seen Leicester's face as he watched the mutations of
that beautiful countenance. It was like that of an epicure who loves to
shake his wine, and amuse himself with its rich sparkle, long after his
appetite is satiated. It seemed as if he were striving to see how near
he could drive that young creature to a passion of tears, and yet forbid
them flowing.
"Now," he said, turning upon her one of his most brilliant smiles, "now
let us have some music. You must not send us away without that, pretty
lady; run and get your guitar."
"It is here," said Florence, starting up with a brightened look. "At
least, I think so--was it not in this room I played for you last?"
"And have you not used the poor instrument since?" questioned Leicester,
as she brought a richly inlaid guitar from the window recess.
"I had no spirits for music," she answered softly, as he bent over the
ottoman on which she seated herself, and with an air of graceful
gallantry, threw the broad ribbon over her neck.
"But you have the spirits now," he whispered.
A glance of sudden delight and a vivid blush was her only reply, unless
the wild, sweet burst of music that rose from the strings of her guitar
might be deemed such.
"What will you have?" she said, turning her radiant face toward him,
while her small hand glided over the strings after this brilliant
prelude. "What shall it be?"
It was a fiendish pleasure, that of torturing a young heart so full of
deep emotions; but the pleasures of that man were all fiendish; the cold
refinement of his intellect made him cruel. With his mind he tortured
the soul over which that mind had gained ascendancy. He named the song
very gently which that poor young creature was to sing. It was her
father's favorite air. The last time she had played it--oh! with what a
pang she remembered that time. It sent the color from her lips. Her hand
seemed turning to marble on the strings.
This was what Leicester expected. He loved to see the hot, passionate
flashes of a heart all his own thus frozen by a word from his lip or a
glance of his eye. A moment before she had been radiant with
happiness--now she sat before him drooping and pale as a broken lily.
That was enough. He would send the fire to her cheek again.
"No, let me think, there was a pretty little air you sometimes gave us
on shipboard--do you remember I wrote some lines for it! Let me try and
catch the air."
He began to hum over a note or two, as if trying to catch an almost
forgotten air, regarding her all the while through his half-closed eyes.
But even the mention of that song did not quite arouse her; it is easier
to give pain than pleasure; easier to dash the cup of joy from a
trembling hand than to fill it afterward. She sighed deeply, and sat
with her eyes bent upon the floor. That bad man was half offended. He
looked upon her continued depression as an evidence of his waning power,
and was not content unless the heart-strings of his victim answered to
every glowing or icy touch of his own evil spirit.
"Ah, you have forgotten the air--I expected it," he said, in a tone of
thrilling reproach, but so subdued that it only reached the ear for
which it was intended. He had stricken that young heart cruelly. Even
this but partially aroused her. His vicious pride was pained. He leaned
back on the divan, and the words of a song, sparkling, passionate and
tender with love broke from his lips. His voice was superb; his
features lighted up; his dark eyes flashed like diamonds beneath the
half-closed lashes.
You should have seen Florence Leicester then. That voice flowed through
her chilled heart like dew upon a perishing lily--like sunshine upon a
rose that the storm has shaken; her drooping form became more erect; her
hand began to tremble; her pale lips were softly parted, and grew red as
if the warm breath, flashing through, kindled a richer glow with each
short, eager gasp. Deeper and deeper those mellow notes penetrated her
soul; for the time, her very being was given up to the wild delusion
that had perverted it.
All the time that his spirit seemed pouring forth its tender memories,
he was watching the effect, coldly as the physician counts the pulse of
his patient. She was very beautiful as the bloom came softly back to her
cheek like a smile growing vivid there; it was like watching a flower
blossom, or the escape of sunbeams from underneath a summer cloud. He
loved a study like this; it gratified his morbid taste; it gave him
mental excitement, and yielded a keen relish to his inordinate vanity.
A doubt that his hitherto invincible powers of attraction might fall
away with the approach of age, had began to haunt him about this time,
and the thought stimulated his hungry self-love into more intense
action. He was testing his own powers in the beautiful agitation of that
young creature. The rich vibrations of his voice were still trembling
upon the air, when the old lady returned to the room. Her manner was
still quiet, but her large and very black eyes were brighter than they
had been, and her tread, though still, was more firm as she crossed the
room. She advanced directly toward Leicester, whose back was partly
turned toward her, and touched his shoulder.
"William!"
Leicester started from his half reclining position and sat upright; his
song was hushed the instant that low, but ringing voice fell upon his
ear, and, with some slight display of embarrassment, he looked in the
old lady's face. Its profound gravity seemed to chill even his
self-possession.
"Not here, William; you know I do not like music!" added the old lady,
in her firm, gentle tones.
Florence leaned back in her seat and drew a deep breath. It seemed as if
she had been disturbed in the sweet bewilderment of some dream; Robert
was gazing fixedly upon her, wondering at all he saw. To him she
appeared like the birds he had read of fluttering around the jaws of a
serpent; spite of himself, this delusion would come upon him. Yet he had
boundless faith in the honor and goodness of the man on whom her eyes
were fixed, while she was a profound stranger.
"I did not know--indeed, madam, I thought you liked music" said
Florence, casting the ribbon from her neck, and addressing the old lady.
"Only when we are alone; then I love to hear you both sing and play,
dear child; but William--Mr. Leicester's voice; it is that I do not
like."
"Not like _his_ voice?" exclaimed Florence, turning her eyes upon him
with a look that made Robert press his lips hard together--"not like
that--oh, madam?"
"Well--well, madam, you shall not be annoyed by it again," said
Leicester, with a slight shrug of their shoulders, "I forgot myself,
that is all!"
The old lady bent her head and sat down, but her coming cast a restraint
upon the little group, and though she attempted to open a conversation
with Robert, he was too much pre-occupied for anything more than a few
vague replies that were sadly out of place.
From the moment of the old lady's entrance, Leicester changed his whole
demeanor. He joined in the efforts she was making to draw the youth out,
and that with a degree of quiet gravity that seemed by its respect to
win upon her favor. He took no further notice of Florence, and seemed
unconscious that she was sitting near watching this change with anxious
eyes and drooping spirits.
"I have," said Leicester, after a few common-place remarks, "I have
just been proposing that the young gentleman should give our pretty
guest here some drawing lessons during the season, always under your
sanction, madam, of course."
The old lady cast a more searching glance at the youth than she had
hitherto bestowed on him, then bending her eyes upon the floor, she
seemed to ponder over the proposal that had been made. After this her
keen glance was directed to Leicester; then she seemed once more lost in
thought.
"Yes," she said, at length, looking full and hard at Leicester, "it will
occupy her--it will be a benefit, perhaps to them both."
Leicester simply bent his head. He conquered even the expression of his
face, that the keen eyes bent upon him might not detect the hidden
reason which urged this proposal. That some motive of self interest was
there, the old lady well knew, but she resolved to watch closer. His
projects were not to be fathomed in a moment. She did not leave the room
again, and her presence threw a constraint upon the group, which
prompted the visitors to depart.
Florence rose as they prepared to go out. Her dark eyes were
beseechingly turned upon Leicester. With a mute glance she sought to
keep him a few minutes longer, though she had no courage to utter the
wish. He took her soft, little hand gently in his, held it a moment, and
went away, followed by Robert and the old lady, who accompanied her
guests to the door.
Florence had crept into the window recess, and while her panting breath
clouded the glass, gazed wistfully at these two dark shadows as they
glided through the flower-garden. She was keenly disappointed; his
visit, the one great joy for which she had so waited and watched, was
over; and how had it passed? With the keen, cold eyes of that old lady
upon them--beneath the curious scrutiny of a stranger. Tears of vexation
gathered in her eyes; she heard the old lady return, and tried to crush
them back with a pressure of the silken lashes, shrinking still behind
the cloud of lace that her discomposure might not be observed.
The old lady entered the room, and, believing it empty, sat down in a
large easy-chair. She sighed profoundly, shading her face with one of
the thin delicate hands, that still bore an impress of great beauty. Her
eyes were thus shrouded, and, though she did not appear to be weeping,
one deep sigh after another heaved the black neckerchief folded over her
bosom. As these sighs abated, Florence saw that the old lady was sinking
into a reverie so deep, that she fancied it possible to steal away,
unnoticed, to her room. So, timidly creeping out from the drapery, that
in its cloud-like softness fell back without a rustle, she moved toward
the door. The old lady looked suddenly up, and the startled girl could
see that the usual serious composure of her countenance was greatly
disturbed.
"Is it you, my dear?" she said, in her usual kindly tones, "I thought
you had gone up stairs."
Florence was startled by the suddenness of this address, and turned
back, for there was something in the old lady's look that seemed to
desire her stay.
"No," she said, "I was looking out upon--upon the night. It is very
lovely!"
"Paradise was more lovely, and yet serpents crept among the flowers,
even there!" said the old lady, thoughtfully.
A vivid blush came into Florence's pale cheek.
"I--I do not understand you," she said, in a faltering voice.
"No, I think not--I hope not," answered the lady, bending her eyes
compassionately on the young girl, "come here, and sit by me."
Florence sat down upon the light ottoman which the old lady drew near
her chair. The blushes, a moment before warm upon her cheeks, had burned
themselves out. She felt herself growing calm and sad under the
influence of those serious, but kind eyes.
"You love Mr. Leicester!" This was uttered quietly, and rather as an
assertion, than from any desire for a reply. As she spoke, the old lady
pressed her hand upon the coil of raven hair that bound that graceful
head; the motion was almost a caress, and it went to the young
creature's heart. "Has he ever said that he loved you?"
"Loved me, oh yes! a thousand times," cried the young creature, her eyes
and her cheek kindling again, "else how could you know--how could any
one guess how very, very much I think of him?"
"And how do you expect this to end?" questioned the old lady, while a
deeper shade settled on her pale brow.
"End?" repeated Florence, and her face was bathed with blushes to the
very temples; "I have never really thought of that--he loves me!"
"Have you never doubted that?" questioned the old lady, with a faint
wave of the head.
"What, his love? I--I--how could any one possibly doubt?"
"And yet to-night--this very evening?"
"No--no, it was only disappointment--regret, the--the flurry of his
sudden visit--not doubt--oh, not doubt of his love!"
"Has this man--has Leicester ever spoken to you of marriage? Have his
professions of love ever taken this form?" persisted the old lady,
becoming more and more earnest.
"Of marriage? yes--no--not in words."
"Not in words then?"
"No, I never thought of that before--but what then?"
"Then," said the old lady, impressively--"then he is one shade less a
villain than I had feared!"
"Madam!" exclaimed the young girl, all pallid and gasping with anger and
affright.
"My child," said the old lady, taking both those small, trembling hands
in hers, "William Leicester will never marry you, nor any one."
"How do you know, madam? how can you know? Who are you that tells me
this with so much authority?"
"I am his mother, poor child. God help me, I am his mother!"
The young girl sat gazing up into that aged face, so pale, so still,
that her very quietude was more painful than a burst of passion could
have been.
"His mother!" broke from her parted lips. "It is his mother who calls
him a villain!"
"Even so," said the old lady, with mournful intensity. "Look up, girl,
and see what it costs a mother to say these things of an only son!"
Florence did look up, and when she saw the anguish upon that face
usually so calm, her heart filled with tender pity, notwithstanding the
tumult already there, and taking the old lady's hands in hers, she bent
down and kissed them.
"If you are indeed his mother," she said, with a sort of fond anguish,
"to-morrow you will unsay these bitter words--you are only angry with
him now--something has gone wrong. You will not repeat such things of
him to-morrow--for oh, they have made me wretched."
"I am cruel only that I may be kind!" said the old lady with mournful
earnestness. "And now, dear child, let us talk no more, you are grieved,
and I suffer more than you think."
With these words, the old lady arose and led her guest from the room.