Ellen, who at the distance from whence she had first seen this visitor imagined that she really was young and handsome, was astonished as she approached, to find in the white frock, sash, ringlets, and little straw hat of a girl, a woman apparently between fifty and sixty; and who vainly attempted to conceal, by a quantity of _rouge_ and a slight veil thrown over her face, the ravages which time had made in her countenance. Her spare figure gave her some resemblance to youthful slightness; but when near, the sharp bones, and angular projections of her face and person, sufficiently proved, that slender appearance was the result of lean old age, instead of girlish delicacy. In spite of the advanced season, she was clad so lightly, that she still shivered from the impression of the keen breeze which had assailed her as she crossed the Park, and gladly accepted a seat by the comfortable fire, though affecting to conceal her sufferings under an air of gaiety and ease. St. Aubyn (who had known her many years, and had been from a boy accustomed to divert himself with her foibles, though he really felt a degree of regard for her, as, in spite of her oddities, she was not without a mixture of good qualities), after having introduced her to his bride, seated himself by her, and began to talk to her in a strain of such marked flattery, as really alarmed Ellen, who thought Miss Alton would certainly be offended; but her enormous vanity prevented her from perceiving that he was merely laughing at her, and she grew every moment more ridiculous. At last, turning to Ellen, she said in a pathetic tone, "Oh, my dear Madam, you cannot conceive how I have felt for you these two days! I declare I have not been able to sleep for thinking of you, and really have shed tears to imagine what a tax you have been paying: how you must have been fatigued by receiving such a succession of visitors! but every one must have some trouble. There is my dear friend, Mrs. Dawkins, the best of women--sweet woman, indeed--there she is lamenting at home such a vexation!" "What is the matter?" said St. Aubyn, laughing, for he knew what sort of misfortunes Mrs. Dawkins and her friend Miss Alton generally lamented with so much pathos: "has she lost her little French dog, or has the careless coachman scratched the pannels of her new carriage?" "Oh, you sad man! how can you make a jest of the dear soul's uncommon sensibility? To be sure she has the tenderest feelings. She often says to me, 'my dear Alton, what should I do without you: you are the only person who can really feel for the misfortunes of a friend.' Sweet woman!" "Well, but," said St. Aubyn, "you were going to tell us what has happened to this _amiable friend_ of your's."