"And I am like that same river lashed to a fury in a December storm," said Georgia, with a darkening brow.
"Exactly—pre-cisely! though you are quiet enough now; but as those still waters must be lashed into tempests, just so certain will you—"
"Mr. Wildair, I don't relish your personalities," said Georgia, with a flushing cheek and kindling eye.
"I beg your pardon—it was an ungallant speech—but I did not know you cared for compliments. What shall I say you look like?—some gorgeous tropical flower?"
"No, sir! you shall compare me to nothing! Georgia Darrell looks like herself alone! There! how do you like my drawing?"
He took it and looked long and earnestly. It was rather a strange one. It represented a wintry sea and coast, with the dark, sluggish waves tossing like a strong heart in strong agony, and only lit by the fitful, watery, glimmer of a pale wintry moon breaking through the dark, lowering clouds above. Down on the shore knelt a young girl, her long hair and thin garments streaming behind her in the wind, her hands clasped, her face blanched, her eyes strained in horror far over the troubled face of the sea on a drowning form. Far out a female face rose above the devouring waves—such a face, so full of a terrible, nameless horror, despair and utter woe as no fancy less vivid than that of Georgia could ever have conceived. One arm was thrown up far over her head in the death struggle, and the eyes in that strange face were appalling to look on.
Richmond Wildair held his breath as he gazed, and looked up in Georgia's dark face in a sort of fear.
"Georgia! Georgia!" he said, "what in Mercy's name were you thinking of when you drew that?"
She laughed.
"Don't you like it, Mr. Wildair?" she said.