gentle friend; his brow was not clouded but disdain sat on his lips, and
his voice was harsh. Perdita was all kindness and attention to her lord;
but she was silent, and beyond words sad. She had grown thin and pale; and
her eyes often filled with tears. Sometimes she looked at Raymond, as if to
say--That it should be so! At others her countenance expressed--I will
still do all I can to make you happy. But Adrian read with uncertain aim
the charactery of her face, and might mistake.--Clara was always with
her, and she seemed most at ease, when, in an obscure corner, she could sit
holding her child's hand, silent and lonely. Still Adrian was unable to
guess the truth; he entreated them to visit us at Windsor, and they
promised to come during the following month.

It was May before they arrived: the season had decked the forest trees with
leaves, and its paths with a thousand flowers. We had notice of their
intention the day before; and, early in the morning, Perdita arrived with
her daughter. Raymond would follow soon, she said; he had been detained by
business. According to Adrian's account, I had expected to find her sad;
but, on the contrary, she appeared in the highest spirits: true, she had
grown thin, her eyes were somewhat hollow, and her cheeks sunk, though
tinged by a bright glow. She was delighted to see us; caressed our
children, praised their growth and improvement; Clara also was pleased to
meet again her young friend Alfred; all kinds of childish games were
entered into, in which Perdita joined. She communicated her gaiety to us,
and as we amused ourselves on the Castle Terrace, it appeared that a
happier, less care-worn party could not have been assembled. "This is
better, Mamma," said Clara, "than being in that dismal London, where you
often cry, and never laugh as you do now."--"Silence, little foolish
thing," replied her mother, "and remember any one that mentions London is
sent to Coventry for an hour."