it rose up before her, emerging from the shadows of the alcove where
it stood. This was not Manuel, not the wan prisoner of Foray,--but
her heart needed none to tell her it was the hero who had loved the
lady of this château in the splendor of his manhood. She saw it, and
saw nothing more,--the prescience of her soul was satisfied. As he
was, she beheld him now;--was it safe for her to sit there gazing at
that likeness?

The old servant, who now and then walked up and down the hall,
perceiving that the stranger was sitting quiet, with her eyes
generally in one direction, was satisfied that she should prove so
patient with this long delay in his mistress's return. He knew not
what occupied her eyes or thoughts,--fancied, may-be, that she was
numbering the books of the library, or engaged in some equally
diverting occupation.

At last came Madeline.

Learning from the servant in the hall that a young person waited her
return, and had waited half the day, with a patience that was
evidently proof against time, the lady proceeded at once to the
library.

Elizabeth, who heard the arrival, and the approach, arose and stood,
waiting the meeting. In her hand she held a paper scroll, the
drawing of Foray, which she had brought to aid her in this interview.

It was, indeed, a royal person upon whom the eyes of the Drummer's
Daughter fell,--a person whose dignity and grace held at a distance
even those whom they attracted. Nothing short of reverence could