The sad-coloured gown--the pinched and plaited cap, which carefully obscured the profusion of long dark-brown hair--the small ruff, and the long sleeves, would have appeared to great disadvantage on a shape less graceful than Alice Bridgenorth’s; but an exquisite form, though not, as yet, sufficiently rounded in the outlines to produce the perfection of female beauty, was able to sustain and give grace even to this unbecoming dress. Her countenance, fair and delicate, with eyes of hazel, and a brow of alabaster, had, notwithstanding, less regular beauty than her form, and might have been justly subjected to criticism. There was, however, a life and spirit in her gaiety, and a depth of sentiment in her gravity, which made Alice, in conversation with the very few persons with whom she associated, so fascinating in her manners and expression, whether of language or countenance--so touching, also, in her simplicity and purity of thought, that brighter beauties might have been overlooked in her company. It was no wonder, therefore, that an ardent character like Julian, influenced by these charms, as well as by the secrecy and mystery attending his intercourse with Alice, should prefer the recluse of the Black Fort to all others with whom he had become acquainted in general society. His heart beat high as she came into the apartment, and it was almost without an attempt to speak that his profound obeisance acknowledged her entrance. “This is a mockery, Master Peveril,” said Alice, with an effort to speak firmly, which yet was disconcerted by a slightly tremulous inflection of voice--“a mockery, and a cruel one. You come to this lone place, inhabited only by two women, too simple to command your absence--too weak to enforce it--you come, in spite of my earnest request--to the neglect of your own time--to the prejudice, I may fear, of my character--you abuse the influence you possess over the simple person to whom I am entrusted--All this you do, and think to make up by low reverences and constrained courtesy! Is this honourable, or is it fair?--Is it,” she added, after a moment’s hesitation--“is it kind?” The tremulous accent fell especially on the last word she uttered, and it was spoken in a low tone of gentle reproach, which went to Julian’s heart. “If,” said he, “there was a mode by which, at the peril of my life, Alice, I could show my regard--my respect--my devoted tenderness--the danger would be dearer to me than ever was pleasure.”