She went up to her chamber. She stood at the window, looking out on the lovely scene, yet scarcely heeding it; her hands pressed upon her bosom to keep down its agitation and its excess of happiness. She glanced up at the starry heavens, and wondered if the bliss, promised there, could exceed this of earth. She seemed to be realizing some ecstatic fairy-dream of her childhood. How long she stood there, she knew not. Silently she paced her chamber, unable to rest. She recalled his whispered words; she recalled those fleeting moments which had been an era in her life: and when she at last sank into a wearied slumber, it was only to live the reality over again; to dream that that light touch of Mr. St. John's on her lips was present, not past. The next morning Madame de Beaufoy was ill: she had an indigestion; a very favourite malady with the French. Madame de Castella was anxious, somewhat uneasy; for no letter had arrived from her husband to account for his non-appearance. She hoped it might come by the evening post. They had many visitors that day, and Adeline thought it would never end. After dinner Madame de Beaufoy was well enough to sit up and play at cards in her dressing-room, her two daughters bearing her company. Adeline was downstairs alone, privately expecting Mr. St. John; now, standing before a mirror, hastily passing a finger over the braids of her luxuriant hair: now glancing, with conscious vanity, at the rich crimson which expectancy called to her cheeks; now, stealing to the colonnade, and looking and listening. Suddenly the room-door opened, and Adeline stepped in from the colonnade, her heart beating wildly. But it was only her mother: who began to rummage amongst the silks and worsteds of an ivory basket. "Only her mother!" How full of ingratitude is the heart to those who have cherished us from infancy, when this all-potent passion for a stranger takes root in it! "Adeline, your aunt has mislaid her green floss-silk. Will you look in my work-box?" Adeline unlocked the box, found the silk, and handed it to her mother. Again the door opened, and this time her pulse did not quicken in vain. It was Mr. St. John. "I am glad to see Madame de Beaufoy is better," he observed as he came in. "She nodded to me from her dressing-room." "Oh yes, thank you. Ah, here's news at last!" exclaimed Madame de Castella, as the old Spanish servant, Silva, entered with a letter. And with a "pardon" to Mr. St. John, she broke the seal. She was very French sometimes. "M. de Castella has been detained," she explained, skimming the contents: "he will not be here for a week. The truth is, Mr. St. John, he always finds Beaufoy painfully triste, and makes excuses for remaining away from it. Adeline, here is a message for you." Adeline glanced up half frightened. These instincts are rarely wrong.