CHAPTER XIII.
THE FAIRY PRINCE.
They arrived in a few minutes at the house in Temple street, and were let in by Patrick. Wentworth had been complaining that something was hurting his foot, and sat down in the hall to take off his boot and see what was the matter, while Harrington went up-stairs into the library.
The jewel of the rich room was Muriel, and Muriel lay on a velvet couch, asleep. The young man noiselessly approached her, and stood tenderly watching her beauty in its repose. She lay in a glimmer of light from the western window, and the faint radiance lit her dreamful face, whose beauty was like a hymn of immortal joy. The draped arms lay restfully along her form, with the white hands lightly clasped together, and the expression of the figure was repose. Gazing at her with heavenly sadness, the lover saw her countenance gleam with an evanescent smile, and the lips murmured a word. It was “Richard.” A quick pang shot to his heart, and at the same instant Muriel started and awoke.
“John!” she exclaimed, coloring and smiling as she sprang up from her light sleep and gave him her hands, “you here! When did you come?”
“Just come,” he replied, holding her hands, and smiling into her face. “Why, Muriel, you looked like the Sleeping Beauty of the fairy tale.”
“Oh, John! And you like the fairy prince that woke the Sleeping Beauty up!” returned Muriel, gaily.
“That’s a compliment, I suppose,” said Harrington.
“Compliment for compliment,” said she.