“Oh, I suppose her youth to her maturity was as the budding to the blooming rose—that is all. Here is your room. Make Flame supply you with anything you may need, that is not at hand; and for your life—nay, _more_, for your good looks, worth more than life—do not open the wire shutters; if you do, you may look in the glass in ten minutes after, and fancy yourself ill with the erysipelas. _Au revoir!_ When you are ready, come down.” Mark Sutherland left the room, and instead of seeking his own chamber, to refresh himself with a change of raiment, he hastened down the stairs, entered the parlour, and once more clasped his mother fervently in his arms, and— “My dearest mother,” and “My dearest Mark,” were the words exchanged between them. “But, oh, Mark! how haggard you look, my love! You have been ill, and never let me know it.” “No, upon my honour, mother!” “Ah, but you are so pale and thin, and your expression is so anxious—what is it? What can it be, Mark?” “My own dear mother, it is nothing that should give you any uneasiness. I have had a long, fatiguing ride, and—I have not heard from India for more than a week. How is my Pearl?” “Ah, rogue! a lover’s anxiety. Is that the cause of those haggard looks? And yet, to come to me first! Dear Mark! But I have anticipated all your wishes. Your India will be here to meet you—I am expecting her every moment. Hark! there are her carriage-wheels!” said the lady, going to the window; then hurrying back, she exclaimed, “_Peste!_ she has some one with her—that lively little Mrs. Vivian, I suppose. Listen, Mark! I will carry her off to a dressing-room, and leave you to meet India. She does not know that you are here.” And Mrs. Sutherland went to the hall door, which she reached just as Mrs. Vivian, who was the first to alight, entered. “Ah, how do you do, Mrs. Vivian? I am very glad to see you! Come, come into my room.” “Oh, but stop—let us wait for India!” “By no means, my dear. _Mark_ will wait for her.” “_A-h-h-h!_ _He_ has come!” “Certainly,” said the lady, carrying off her captive. India sauntered languidly up the door-stairs. Mark sprang forward to meet her. She started—paled—reeled—might have fallen, but he caught her to his bosom, murmuring deeply, earnestly, “_India! my India!_” For a moment she had nearly swooned with surprise and joy, but in the next instant she recovered, and deeply blushing, withdrew herself from him, saying, “I did not know that you were here.” “I have only this instant arrived,” he replied. “My dear, beautiful India! to see you, it is unspeakable happiness.”