this month of November, looked alien in the southern sunlight. There
was no mistaking her nationality; the absorption, the troubled
earnestness with which she bent over her writing, were peculiar to a
cast of features such as can be found only in our familiar island; a
physiognomy not quite pure in outline, vigorous in general effect
and in detail delicate; a proud young face, full of character and
capacity, beautiful in chaste control. Sorrowful it was not, but its
paleness and thinness expressed something more than imperfect health
of body; the blue-grey eyes, when they wandered for a moment in an
effort of recollection, had a look of weariness, even of ennui; the
lips moved as if in nervous impatience until she had found the
phrase or the thought for which her pen waited. Save for these
intervals, she wrote with quick decision, in a large clear hand,
never underlining, but frequently supplying the emphasis of heavy
stroke in her penning of a word. At the end of her letters came a
signature excellent in individuality: "Miriam Baske."

The furniture of her room was modern, and of the kind demanded by
wealthy _forestieri_ in the lodgings they condescend to occupy. On
the variegated tiles of the floor were strewn rugs and carpets; the
drapery was bright, without much reference to taste in the ordering
of hues; a handsome stove served at present to support leafy plants,
a row of which also stood on the balcony before the window. Round
the ceiling ran a painted border of foliage and flowers. The chief
ornament of the walls was a large and indifferent copy of Raphael's
"St. Cecilia;" there were, too, several _gouache_ drawings of local
scenery: a fiery night-view of Vesuvius, a panorama of the Bay, and
a very blue Blue Grotto. The whole was blithe, sunny, Neapolitan;
sufficiently unlike a sitting-room in Redheck House, Bartles,
Lancashire, which Mrs. Baske had in her mind as she wrote.