together, was almost as striking as the moral contrast of their hearts.
The one, so chastened, sad, and gentle; the other, so capable of pride
and passion; so darkly excitable, and yet so mysteriously beautiful. The
one, like a Niobe seen in the softest moonshine; the other, a Venus,
lighted in the glare of distant conflagration.

"Mademoiselle, dear mademoiselle, I am so much grieved at what I have to
say, that I hardly know how to speak to you," said poor Mrs. Marston,
pressing her hand; "but Mr. Marston has twice desired me to tell you,
what you will hear with far less pain than it costs me to say it."

Mademoiselle de Barras stole another flashing glance at her companion,
but did not speak.

"Mr. Marston still persists, mademoiselle, in desiring that we
shall part."

"Est-il possible?" cried the Frenchwoman, with a genuine start.

"Indeed, mademoiselle, you may well be surprised," said Mrs. Marston,
encountering her full and dilated gaze, which, however, dropped again in
a moment to the ground. "You may, indeed, naturally be surprised and
shocked at this, to me, most severe decision."

"When did he speak last of it?" said she, rapidly.

"But a few moments since," answered Mrs. Marston.

"Ha," said mademoiselle, and remained silent and motionless for more
than a minute.