It was an evening of excitement. Edith sang, and Margaret played some of her elfin strains, and Mr. Regulus made music leap joyously from the sounding violin. There was one in the lonely library who might have made sweeter music than all, whose spirit's chords were all jangled and tuneless, and whose ear seemed closed to the concord of melodious sounds. _My_ soul was not tuned to harmony now, but still there was something soothing in its influence, and it relieved me from the necessity of talking, the exertion of _seeming_ what I could not _be_. It was a luxury to glide unnoticed on the stream of thought, though dark the current, and leading into troubled waters. It was a luxury to think that the sighs of the heart might breathe unheard in the midst of the soft rolling waves of Edith's melody, or the dashing billows of Margaret's. Sometimes when I imagined myself entirely unobserved, and suffered the cloud of sadness that brooded over my spirits to float outwards, if I accidentally raised my eyes, I met those of Richard Clyde fixed on me with an expression of such intense and thrilling sympathy, I would start with a vague consciousness of guilt for having elicited such expressive glances. Madge was playing as only Madge could play, and Edith standing near the door that opened into the saloon in the front parlor. She looked unusually pale, and her countenance was languid. Was she thinking of Julian, the young artist at the Falls, and wondering if the brief romance of their love were indeed a dream? All at once a change, quick as the electric flash, passed over her face. A bright, rosy cloud rolled over its pallor, like morning breaking in Alpine snows. Even the paly gold of her hair seemed to catch the glory that so suddenly and absolutely illumined her. She was looking into the saloon, and I followed the direction of her kindling eyes. Julian was at that moment crossing the threshold. She had seen him ascending the steps, and her heart sprang forth to meet him. I saw her hesitate, look round for her mother, who was not near her, then, while the rosy cloud deepened to crimson, she floated into the saloon. I went to Mrs. Linwood, who was in the back parlor, to tell her of the arrival of the new guest. She started and changed color. His coming was the seal of Edith's destiny. "I will not come," he had said to her in parting, "till I can bring abundant testimonials of my spotless lineage and irreproachable reputation." I had drawn her apart from the company, expecting she would be agitated by the annunciation. "Should not Ernest know of this?" I asked. "He did not abjure all the rites of hospitality. Oh, for Edith's sake, tell him of Julian's arrival, and entreat him to come forth and welcome him."