However, at last Miss Manwaring was happily rid of them. She looked around, and there in unwonted positions were the articles of furniture, and the little nicknacks and household goods which she had known from childhood, and which had been removed from her old home in the North--that home which was hers no longer--that home which had been rudely broken up by death, and which was now the property of a stranger. The girl, for such she was, was dressed in deep mourning, and as she threw off her hat, long masses of lovely, pale gold hair fell around and about a beautifully cut face of ashy paleness; out of which, however, gleamed, like stars, eyes which might have been grey, or hazel, or violet. Great yearning eyes they were, of marvellous beauty, like those of Beatrice Cenci, as they look out from the long-dead past from the canvas at Rome; eyes which it was a joy to have seen once, a delight even to dream of hereafter. The girl was alone in a strange place, without friends, without acquaintances, and in a new and unknown sphere of existence. She was cold, and travel-worn, and tired, and she felt very desolate, and the sight of the objects around her, connected as they were with those she had loved and lost, affected her deeply; and throwing herself upon her knees at a table, she buried her pale, fair face in her white hands, and burst into an agony of tears. CHAPTER II. A GOOD SAMARITAN. UNKNOWN, however, and unsuspected by herself, Evelyn Manwaring was not without a witness in this her passion of grief. The “odd man,” who had been the last to leave the room, had, after the manner of odd men, left the door open when he took his departure, and it thus fell out that the scene just described was witnessed by the friendly and sympathising eyes of a stoutish, middle-aged spinster lady of kindly aspect, who, on hospitable thoughts intent, had entered the ante-chamber of the drawing-room. Miss Sarah Strong, for such was this good lady’s name, watched the new-comer in silence for some little time, as if determined to allow her grief to take its natural course; and then, hastily brushing away from her own face what seemed to be a falling tear, she advanced briskly into the room, and, laying her hand on the young lady’s shoulder, said in sympathising tones of voice, “Come, my dear, I’m sure you must be tired and cold after your long journey; so, as I am your next-door neighbour, Sarah Strong, I have come to beg you to step across the passage to my rooms, and warm yourself at my fire until dinner is ready, and take a cup of hot tea which I have made on purpose for you.”