Still, Mabel Aylett was not a belle, and Rosa Tazewell was. Callow collegians and enterprising young merchants from the city; sunbrowned owners of spreading acres and hosts of laborers; students and practitioners of law and medicine, and an occasional theologue, had broken their hearts for perhaps a month at a time, for love of her, since she was a school-girl in short dresses. Yet there had been a date very far back in the acquaintanceship of each of these with the charmer, when he had marvelled at the infatuation which had blinded her previous adorers. She was “a neat little thing,” with her round waist, her tiny hands and feet and roguish eye--but there was nothing else remarkable about her features, and in coloring, the picture was too dark for his taste. Why, she might be mistaken for a creole! And each critic held fast to his expressed opinion until the roguish eyes met his directly and with meaning, and he found himself diving into the bright, shimmering wells, and drowning--still ecstatically--before he reached the bottom whence streamed the light of passionate feeling, striking upward through the surface. What her glances did not effect was done by her dazzling smile and musical voice. As one of her victims swore, “It was a dearer delight to be rejected by her than to be accepted by a dozen other girls--she did the thing up so handsomely! And yet, do you know, sir, I could have shot myself for a barbarous brute when I saw the pitying tears standing upon her lashes, and heard the tremor in her sweet tones, as she begged me to forgive her for not loving me!” Those she had once captivated never quite rid themselves of the glamour of her arts; remained her trusty squires, ready to serve, or to defend her always afterward. Aunt Rachel, intent, during the short pause, upon the movements of the servant who was setting the smoking breakfast upon the table, glanced around when all was properly arranged, to summon the two to their places--but something in Rosa's attitude and countenance held her momentarily speechless. Mabel still bent over her roses, in smiling interest, and Frederic Chilton was watching her--but not as the third person of the group about the beaufet watched them both between her half-closed lids, her black brows close together, and the glittering teeth visible under the curling upper lip. “She looked like a panther lying in wait for her prey!” Mrs. Sutton said to her niece, many months later, in attempting to describe the scene. “Or like a bright-eyed snake coiled for a spring. The sight of her sent shivers all down my spine.” Her interruption of the tableau sounded oddly abrupt to ears used to her pleasant accents. “Come, young people! how long are you going to keep me waiting? Breakfast is cooling fast!” “I beg your pardon, Auntie! I did not notice that it had been brought in,” apologized Mabel, drawing back, that Frederic might lift the loaded salver carefully to its place upon the board.