"Weep not for me, beautiful and loving Marian, but for
yourself--yourself!"

Marian hesitated. It were vain to follow and try to draw the wanderer
into the house; yet she could not bear the thought of leaving her. In
the meantime the sound of the shriek had brought Edith out. She came,
leading her little daughter Miriam, now five years old, by the hand.

Edith was scarcely changed in these five years--a life without
excitement or privation or toil--a life of moderation and regularity--of
easy household duties, and quiet family affections, had restored and
preserved her maiden beauty. And now her pretty hair had its own will,
and fell in slight, flossy black ringlets down each side the pearly brow
and cheeks; and nothing could have been more in keeping with the style
of her beauty than the simple, close-fitting black gown, her habitual
dress.

But lovely as the young mother was, you would scarcely have looked at
her a second time while she held that child by her hand--so marvelous
was the fascination of that little creature's countenance. It was a face
to attract, to charm, to delight, to draw you in, and rivet your whole
attention, until you became absorbed and lost in the study of its
mysterious spell--a witching face, whose nameless charm it were
impossible to tell, I might describe the fine dark Jewish features, the
glorious eyes, the brilliant complexion, and the fall of long, glossy,
black ringlets that veiled the proud little head; but the spell lay not
in them, any more than in the perfect symmetry of her form, or the
harmonious grace of her motion, or the melodious intonations of her
voice.