tapering into the shining air. It was a calm and tranquillizing scene;
and so intent was Lady Vargrave's abstracted gaze, that Mrs. Leslie was
unwilling to disturb her revery.

At length Lady Vargrave turned; and there was that patient and pathetic
resignation written in her countenance which belongs to those whom the
world can deceive no more, and who have fixed their hearts in the life
beyond.

Mrs. Leslie, whatever she thought or felt, said nothing, except in kindly
remonstrance on the indiscretion of braving the night air. The window
was closed; they sat down to confer.

Mrs. Leslie repeated the invitation given to Evelyn, and urged the
advisability of accepting it. "It is cruel to separate you," said she;
"I feel it acutely. Why not, then, come with Evelyn? You shake your
head: why always avoid society? So young, yet you give yourself too much
to the past!"

Lady Vargrave rose, and walked to a cabinet at the end of the room; she
unlocked it, and beckoned to Mrs. Leslie to approach. In a drawer lay
carefully folded articles of female dress,--rude, homely, ragged,--the
dress of a peasant girl.

"Do these remind you of your first charity to me?" she said touchingly:
"they tell me that I have nothing to do with the world in which you and
yours, and Evelyn herself, should move."

"Too tender conscience!--your errors were but those of circumstances, of
youth;--how have they been redeemed! none even suspect them. Your past