His melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of another figure. It was India. And prepared as he had been to meet a great change in the “Pearl of Pearl River,” he scarcely recognised her. The superficial is ever the first to strike us. He noticed that the gorgeous and flowing drapery which had once graced her form, was now replaced by a plain black dress. The rich, warm, olive bloom of her complexion had given place to the paleness of ivory. Naught remained of her glorious beauty but the luxuriant amber-hued ringlets and the large, dark, mournful, soul-thrilling eyes. More of _real_ self-possession she exhibited now than she had ever shown in former times. She advanced towards Mark, holding out her hand, and welcomed him with these words: “I am happy to see you again at Cashmere—after so many years—my dear cousin—why could we not be friends?” Her voice faltered slightly; and when she paused, Mr. Sutherland cordially grasped her outstretched hands, and said, while he pressed them— “We _are_ friends, my dearest India; at least, I can speak for myself and for one who loves you not less than I do—my wife Rosalie.” With a spasmodic catch India snatched away her hands; and, quivering through every nerve, sat down, and veiled her face with her hands, and, “It is a trying world!”—burst from her quivering lips. Raising his eyebrows in painful surprise, Mark Sutherland gazed earnestly at her for an instant, and then turned away his eyes, waiting reverently for her self-recovery. Soon she looked up, and, faintly smiling, said— “I have had much, oh! very much, indeed, to try me of late, my cousin. Everything is going to ruin with us—everything, everything.” “I trust not. Your father is embarrassed, but with the advice and assistance of his friends, all, I hope, will be brought to a happy issue.” “Ah, no! but it is not of our desperate affairs I wished to speak. Tell me of your own. You have been successful in life?” “Yes, I have been successful, thanks, under Divine Providence, to the constant sympathy and co-operation of my faithful Rosalie.” Again India hastily raised her hands, to screen the spasm of pain that traversed her countenance; and—“Why will he stab me with that name?” she thought; but she answered calmly—“Rosalie is an amiable woman; how is she?” “Well, and very busy.” “And your family?” “We have no family; we are all the world to each other.” “Tell me how you have got on since I saw you last.” Mr. Sutherland began, and told her the principal circumstances of his life since their last parting-dwelling frequently upon his Rosalie’s hope and faith, and persevering energy. “And so Rosalie has been the angel of his life,” she muttered inaudibly between her white lips. A pause ensued, which was broken at last by India.