Miss Clifton took up the parcel, her eyes fell upon the topmost handkerchief, and she started violently. She swiftly turned it over and looked at the second, and the blood rushed to her brow! At the third, and it receded again, leaving her pale as death! She hurriedly went through the dozen, then springing to her feet, she hurled the parcel to the floor, and setting her heel upon it, lifted her proud form to its loftiest height, and stood, her chest expanded, her head thrown back, her cheek kindling, her eyes blazing,—full! full!—yet proudly suppressing all utterance of passion! Captain Clifton started to his feet, exclaiming—
“Carolyn, my dear cousin!”
But spurning the parcel beneath her heel, she turned imperiously away, and walked up the room.
He followed her, repeating—
“Carolyn, my dearest Carolyn! what is it?”
Turning and flashing upon him her fierce, imperious eyes, she stretched out her arm, and pointed in scornful silence to the handkerchiefs on the floor.
He went and picked them up to examine them. Oh! treacherous absence of mind! Oh! fatal refrain of the mental melody! Oh! horror of horrors! Catastrophe of catastrophes! Upon every handkerchief was beautifully marked—“Kate Kavanagh.”
“Confirmation strong
As proof from Holy Writ.”
Ay, and a great deal stronger, as sight is more convincing than faith! What was to be done? It was in vain to deny or attempt to explain it! Yet he must try, even if he should make himself ridiculous. Hurling the fatal “handkerchiefs” down with virulence, he sprang to the side of the outraged and indignant beauty; seized her hand, exclaiming, vehemently—