On the old-fashioned French bedstead were thrown dresses of various hues and expensive stuffs, while one only, a robe of the most delicate material, its graceful folds looped with orange flowers, seemed to attract the attention of the fair, fragile being, whose attitude was one of intense suffering. Her bright hopes had faded at sight of that colorless garb, and the bridal wreath was to wither on her brow! What to her sad soul were the costly things before her? The jewels that sparkled on their snow-white satin case, the long fairy veil of beautiful lace that lay side by side with the bridal dress? Her companion continued speaking, and she bowed her face upon those clasped hands, while her slight frame shook with its contending emotions. A few moments more and she raised her head. She was pale, and her large, dark eyes dilated into fearful size. At length the big drops came slowly down her cheek, and she was able to speak. "No more, Angela, no more! You love me, I know; but what you have done to day was no act of friendship. You have troubled the dark waters of my soul until they have become a torrent over which I have no control." "And it is because I love you, Pauline, that I have made your future life manifest to you. Do not seek to make a merit of obedience to your proud mother's will. It is because you have been taught to fear her, that you have consented to perjure yourself, and marry a man you cannot love." "For the love of heaven, spare me!" cried the girl, shrinking from her friend's words, "Is it to triumph over me that you thus seek to move me?" Her friend gazed mournfully upon her, and rising from her seat, gently put her arm around her. "My poor Pauline! my dear Pauline!" murmured she, "I have been cruel--forgive me." Her answer was a fervent embrace--and throwing their arms round one another, they wept in silence. At this moment the door opened, and a lady entered. She was tall and majestic, but there was an expression of pride and extreme hauteur on her countenance. She wore a handsome but faded dress, and the somewhat high-crowned cap bespoke a love of former fashions. She had a foreign air, and when she addressed her daughter, it was in French. "How is this!" cried she, angrily. "What scenes are these, Pauline? As often as I enter your room I find you in tears. Is it to your advice, Mademoiselle Percy, that my daughter owes her red eyes?" Angela was about to reply, but Pauline waved her back. "Is it, then, a crime to weep, mamma? If there were no tears, the heart would break." "It is a crime, Pauline, to resist the will of your mother, when she has provided for your happiness in a manner suitable to your rank and birth. It is a crime to break the fifth commandment, which tells you to honor and obey your mother."