The bridal pair, whose honeymoon in three months had not waned, were sitting on a short sofa, drawn up on the right of the fire. They were a very handsome couple and formed a fine picture as they sat--Philip, with his grandly-proportioned and graceful form, perfect Roman profile, stately head and short, curled, black hair and beard and high-bred air--Marguerite, in her superb beauty, which neither negligence nor overdress could mar--Marguerite sometimes so disdainful of the aid of ornament, was very simply clothed in a plain robe of fine, soft, crimson cloth, about the close bodice of which dropped here and there a stray ringlet from the rich mass of her slightly disheveled, but most beautiful hair. Her warm, inspiring face was glowing with life, and her deep, dark eyes were full of light. Some little graceful trifle of embroidery gave her slender, tapering fingers a fair excuse to move, while she listened to the voice of Philip reading “Childe Harold.” But after all there was little sewing and little reading done. Marguerite’s soul-lit eyes were oftener raised to Philip’s face than lowered over her work; and Philip better loved the poetry in Marguerite’s smile than the beauty of the canto before him. They had, in the very lavish redundance of life and consciousness of mutual self-sufficiency, left the gay and multitudinous city to retire to this secluded spot, this outpost of the continent, to be for a while all in all to each other; and three months of total isolation from the world had passed, and as yet they had not begun to be weary of each other’s exclusive society. In truth, with their richly-endowed natures and boundless mutual resources, they could not soon exhaust the novelty of their wedded bliss. No lightest, softest cloud had as yet passed over the face of their honeymoon. If Mr. Helmstedt’s despotic character occasionally betrayed itself, even toward his queenly bride, Marguerite, in her profound, self-abnegating, devoted love, with almost a saintly enthusiasm, quickly availed herself of the opportunity to prove how much deep joy is felt in silently, quietly, even secretly, laying our will at the feet of one we most delight to honor. And if Marguerite’s beautiful face sometimes darkened with a strange gloom and terror, it was always in the few hours of Mr. Helmstedt’s absence, and thus might easily be explained; for be it known to the reader that there was no way of communication between their island and the outside world except by boats, and the waters this windy season were always rough. If Mr. Helmstedt sometimes reflected upon the scenes of their stormy courtship, and wondered at the strange conduct of his beloved, he was half inclined to ascribe it all to a sort of melodramatic coquetry or caprice, or perhaps fanaticism in regard to the foolish pledge of celibacy once made between Miss De Lancie and Miss Compton, of which he had heard; it is true he thought that Marguerite was not