"At a low window which opened on the lawn, in a large arm-chair, sat a lady, evidently marked by ill health, yet with something so gentle and unearthly in her appearance as at once to attract and please. Her complexion had faded into whiteness--her hair was nearly silver, yet not a grizzly grayish white, but silken still in its change; her dress was also white--and there was something of a withered look about her--redeemed by a soft, but bright gray eye, and more by the sweetest smile in the world, which she wore, as, rising from her chair, she embraced me, exclaiming, 'I know you from your likeness to your mother--dear, dear Rupert.' "That name of itself touched a chord which for many years had been mine. My mother had called me by that name; so indeed had my father, when any momentary softness of feeling allowed him to give me any other appellation except 'You sir!' 'You dog, you!' My uncle, after whom I was also called John, chose to drop what he called a silly, romantic name; and in his house, and in his letters, I was always John. Rupert breathed of a dear home and my mother's kiss; and I looked inquiringly on her who gave it me, when my attention was attracted, riveted by the vision of a lovely girl, who had glided in from another room, and stood near us, radiant in youth and beauty. She was, indeed, supremely lovely--exuberant in all the charms of girlhood--and her beauty was enhanced by the very contrast to the pale lady by whom she stood--an houri she seemed, standing by a disimbodied spirit--black, soft, large eyes, overpowering in their lustre, and yet more so from the soul that dwelt within--a cherub look--a fairy form; with a complexion and shape that spoke of health and joy. What could it mean? Who could she be? And who was she who knew my name? It was an enigma, but one full of promise to me, who had so long been exiled from the charities of life; and who, 'as the hart panteth for the water brooks,' panted for love." CHAPTER XXVII "After a little explanation, I discovered who my new friends were. The lady and my mother were remotely related; but they had been educated together, and separated only when they married. My mother's death had prevented my knowing that such a relation existed; far less that she took the warmest interest in the son of her earliest friend. Mrs. Rivers had been the poorer of the two, and for a long time considered that her childhood's companion was moving in an elevated sphere of life, while she had married a lieutenant in the navy; and while he was away, attending the duties of his profession, she lived in retirement and economy, in the rustic, low-roofed, yet picturesque and secluded cottage, whose leaf-shrouded casements and flowery lawn even now are before me, and speak of peace. I never call to mind that abode of tranquillity without associating it with the poet's wish:--