Thus desolate, dejected, and forlorn,
Thy softness steals upon my yielding senses,
Until my soul is faint from grief and pain.”
—Rowe.
When the servant took Mr. John Dinsmore’s card to his mistress, he found that lady sitting moodily alone before the sea-coal fire which burned brightly in the grate.
“A caller, on such a day, and at such an hour,” she muttered quite below her breath, as she took the card from the silver tray.
One glance at the superscription which the bit of pasteboard bore, and she fell back in her chair, almost fainting from sheer terror.
The question of the servant, who was regarding her critically, aroused her to her senses. He was saying:
“Are you out, or in, my lady?”
The color rushed back to her face, and the lifeblood to her heart.