delicate; looking like a lily in the thick creamy-tinted wrapper that
alternately clung to and swayed from her finely moulded figure; with
her forehead, crowned with the palest of pale tresses, lifted and
flashing with power; one quivering hand clasping the arm of her chair,
the other outstretched and pointing toward some distant object in the
room,--her whole appearance was so startling, so extraordinary, that I
held my breath in surprise, actually for the moment doubting if it were
a living woman I beheld, or some famous pythoness conjured up from
ancient story, to express in one tremendous gesture the supreme
indignation of outraged womanhood.

"Miss Mary Leavenworth," whispered that ever present voice over my
shoulder.

Ah! Mary Leavenworth! What a relief came with this name. This
beautiful creature, then, was not the Eleanore who could load, aim, and
fire a pistol. Turning my head, I followed the guiding of that uplifted
hand, now frozen into its place by a new emotion: the emotion of being
interrupted in the midst of a direful and pregnant revelation, and saw
--but, no, here description fails me! Eleanore Leavenworth must be
painted by other hands than mine. I could sit half the day and dilate
upon the subtle grace, the pale magnificence, the perfection of form
and feature which make Mary Leavenworth the wonder of all who behold
her; but Eleanore--I could as soon paint the beatings of my own heart.
Beguiling, terrible, grand, pathetic, that face of faces flashed upon
my gaze, and instantly the moonlight loveliness of her cousin faded
from my memory, and I saw only Eleanore--only Eleanore from that
moment on forever.

When my glance first fell upon her, she was standing by the side of