echoed her mirth, and provoked her repartees, would have shrunk in fear
from her convulsive despair. Her only consolation during the violence which
she did herself, was to watch the motions of an illuminated clock, and
internally count the moments which must elapse before she could be alone.

At length the rooms began to thin. Mocking her own desires, she rallied her
guests on their early departure. One by one they left her--at length she
pressed the hand of her last visitor. "How cold and damp your hand is,"
said her friend; "you are over fatigued, pray hasten to rest." Perdita
smiled faintly--her guest left her; the carriage rolling down the street
assured the final departure. Then, as if pursued by an enemy, as if wings
had been at her feet, she flew to her own apartment, she dismissed her
attendants, she locked the doors, she threw herself wildly on the floor,
she bit her lips even to blood to suppress her shrieks, and lay long a prey
to the vulture of despair, striving not to think, while multitudinous ideas
made a home of her heart; and ideas, horrid as furies, cruel as vipers, and
poured in with such swift succession, that they seemed to jostle and wound
each other, while they worked her up to madness.

At length she rose, more composed, not less miserable. She stood before a
large mirror--she gazed on her reflected image; her light and graceful
dress, the jewels that studded her hair, and encircled her beauteous arms
and neck, her small feet shod in satin, her profuse and glossy tresses, all
were to her clouded brow and woe-begone countenance like a gorgeous frame
to a dark tempest-pourtraying picture. "Vase am I," she thought, "vase
brimful of despair's direst essence. Farewell, Perdita! farewell, poor
girl! never again will you see yourself thus; luxury and wealth are no
longer yours; in the excess of your poverty you may envy the homeless
beggar; most truly am I without a home! I live on a barren desart, which,
wide and interminable, brings forth neither fruit or flower; in the midst