She was tall, and slender, and graceful as a young elm, her small head crowned with masses of golden hair, her eyes—“heaven’s own blue”—looking out from under a broad forehead, which was partially concealed by the shining mist which lay lightly upon it, her red lips parted with an expression of eager interest as she gazed upon the hurrying throng below. She was as fair as the day—a perfect picture, upon which the eye would love to linger.
It is our Star, fresh and beautiful as ever, but with something more of maturity and dignity in her bearing than when we last saw her.
She has been in London just one week, and is enjoying every day, despite the proverbial rain and fog, for she has returned to her native land once more, and every inch of ground is replete with interest for her.
The past few months have been full of enjoyment, for she has “been everywhere and seen everything” in the far West of the New World—at least as far as that was practicable, and as she had warned Mr. Rosevelt she should wish to do—and with such congenial companions as he and Miss Meredith always were the time could not fail to pass pleasantly.
But she had turned her face with even keener anticipations toward England’s shores, while not even the memory of her previous terrible experience at sea had power to make her shrink from the long voyage, or mar the delight of this glad return.
As she sits there in her handsome parlor, looking out upon the street, a door opens, and Jacob Rosevelt enters.
He looks younger and in better health than we have ever seen him before, while his face is animated and genial, as if life was at its brightest with him.
Star looked around as he entered.
“How quickly you have returned, Uncle Jacob,” she said, rising, and going to meet him, and taking his hat.
“Yes; I knew you would be impatient for your letters, and, as there is quite a budget to be gone through with, I thought it best not to keep you in suspense.”