ELEANOR LYNN.
In a few moments they were seated side by side on the sofa, and while she spoke, in a low musical voice, Randolph devoured her with his eyes.
"We arrived from Europe, only the day before yesterday. Father determined to visit New York, on our way to Havana, where we intend to spend the winter. And to-day, by a strange chance at our hotel, he encountered your Agent—the superintendent of your southern plantation,—an eccentric person, who wears an old-fashioned surtout, with I know not how many capes. From this gentleman, father learned that you had just arrived from the south, and at once determined to give you a surprise. We came together, but to tell you the truth, I wanted to see you alone, and, therefore, lingered behind, while father went up stairs to prepare you for my presence."
She smiled, and Randolph, like a man in a delicious dream, feared to move or speak, lest the vision which he beheld might vanish into the air.
Words are but poor things, with which to paint a beautiful woman.
There was youth and health in every line of her face: her form, incased in a dark dress, which enveloped her bust and fitted around her neck, was moulded in the warm loveliness of womanhood, at once mature and virgin. Her bonnet thrown aside, her face was disclosed in full light. A brow, denoting by its outline, a bold, yet refined intellect; an eye, large, lustrous, and looking black by night; a lip that had as much of pride as of love in its expression—such were the prominent characteristics of her face.
"Why did you leave us so abruptly at Florence?" she exclaimed,—"Ah, I know the secret—"
"You know the secret?" echoed Randolph, his heart mounting to his throat.
"One of your friends in Florence—a young artist named Waters, betrayed you," she said, and laid her gloved hand on his arm, a sunny smile playing over her noble countenance. "At least after your departure he told your secrets to father."
Randolph started from the sofa, as though a chasm had opened at his feet.