"Oh, it is perfect, it is exquisite!" said the poet, under his breath; "a Madonna, a Saint Cecilia, a seraph! Why, Miss Leonard, do you know you have a genius under the roof with you?"
"Yes, sir—Mr. Randall," said Miss Felice, courtesying.
"Pshaw! I mean the artist. Come, is she the mysterious painter of those delicious portraits in the drawing-room that have attracted such crowds of admirers already?"
"Well, since you have guessed it, yes. It was her own wish it should not be known."
"Why, she must be the eighth wonder of the world—this governess. Who is she? What is she? Where does she come from?" said Mr. Randall, impetuously.
"She is Miss Randall—a governess, as I before told you, from New York city, and that is her whole biography as far as I know it, except that she is very strange, and wild, and solemn-looking, with oh, such immense black, haunting eyes!"
"Oh, Felice, she's really pretty!" said Jennie; "a great deal prettier than you or Mag. Now ain't she, Royal?"
"Who?" said Royal, entering at this moment.
"Our Miss Randall."
"Yes, I reckon she is. Miss Randall's a tip-top lady," said Royal, emphatically.