Portia; Or, By Passions Rocked

Author of PHYLLIS, AIRY, FAIRY LILLIAN, ETC NEW YORK AND CHICAGO BUTLER BROTHERS
TROW'S PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, NEW YORK.

A child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. —Love's Labors Lost.
The gates are thrown wide open, and the carriage rolls smoothly down the long dark avenue, beneath the waving branches of the tall elms and the copper beeches, through which the dying sun is flinging its parting rays.
The horses, sniffing the air of home, fling up their heads and make still greater haste, until presently, rounding the curve, they draw up before the hall door.
It stands open, and on the high, stone steps that lead to it, a very pretty girl looks down upon the carriage from under her palm, with a face eager and expectant. When she has barely glanced at it, she says, Ah! in a tone of deep satisfaction, and running down the steps and over the gravel, turns the handle of the carriage door and looks anxiously at its occupant.
You have come, she says, cheerily. I was so afraid something might have prevented you.
The person she addresses—a girl about two years older than herself, says:
Yes, I have come, in a tone slow and sweet, almost to languor.
So glad, says the pretty girl, with a smile that must be one of her sweetest charms, it is so full of life and gaiety; come out of this dreadful old sarcophagus and upstairs with me; I have your tea in your own room for you.
Miss Vibart, stepping out of the brougham, follows her hostess into the house, through the grand old hall, and up the wide, oak staircase, into a room huge and old-fashioned—but delicious and cozy, and comfortable to the last degree.