which were the qualities he himself most highly prized in man and woman. They stood patent on his ex-workman’s broad brow, in his steady eyes, and upon his firmly, though not sourly, set lips. Sebastian was divided between pleased surprise and self-congratulation on his own foresight; for, from the first, he had hoped and expected to see Myles turn into something of this kind. Occupied with these feelings, the two young men scarcely spoke, but left Herr Süsmeyer to do the talking, which was exactly what he wished. The first thing that really roused them to reality again was a remark of Herr Süsmeyer’s: ‘Your dear wife (_Ihre liebe Frau_) is absent a long time, _mein Bester_.’ ‘Oh,’ said Sebastian, with a sudden flash of the eyes, which did not escape Myles, ‘she will not be long. I told her at what time you took your supper. She was resting when I saw her.’ ‘So!’ said Herr Süsmeyer, adding, for the hundredth time, ‘I trust she finds herself accommodated with all she wants upstairs.’ ‘Oh, everything, thank you. She says she thinks German hospitality is the most delightful she ever had.’ ‘German hospitality!’ thought Myles. ‘Strange! She passed her happiest years in Germany; she told me so.’ While he was marvelling at this (to him) peculiar remark of Sebastian’s, the rustle of a silken gown became audible on the polished floor of the passage; _she_ was coming now. ‘There she is!’ said Sebastian, catching the sound too, and starting forward to open the door. ‘I hope I’m not very late,’ said a voice--(silvery, though not _the_ voice)--and it was just at that moment that Myles began to wonder if he were labouring under some wild and extraordinary hallucination--whether long brooding and the last blow had really driven him mad. He was conscious, but in a dream-like, unreal manner, of rising, as Sebastian led a lady into the room--a lady who laughed a happy laugh. He was conscious, also dreamily, of seeing a figure which had been in his thoughts quite lately--a tall, superbly shaped, queenly figure--not the figure of Adrienne; of seeing a lovely face, glowing with a soft flush of health and happiness; of meeting eyes which, for darkness and fire, might match his own; of seeing a long, white throat, a dress of silk and lace, rings flashing on white hands, and a dazzling smile making the brilliant whole more brilliant still. Nothing like a sweet violet, indeed, but a rich and gorgeous rose, in the full pride of its queenly beauty. ‘Helena, this is Mr. Heywood, of whom you have often heard me speak. Heywood, Mrs. Mallory.’ (‘How fearfully he stared at me, dear!’ said Helena afterwards. ‘He is really a very remarkable-looking young man, and I liked him when I talked to him; but he stared most alarmingly at first.’)