The paper before her was covered with a water-colored sketch of Marguerite, of France, at the siege of Damietta. And the ideal face of the royal heroine, was the real one of the humble Catherine herself. And in the corner of the paper were the initials A. C. He had taken _her_ homely features as his notion of those of the heroic Queen of St. Louis. And as she gazed, her heart shuddered with a strange, wild emotion of blended wonder, joy and remorse. The nature of the maiden was becoming vaguely intelligible to herself. And Mrs. Clifton did not see her trance, but lay upon the sofa very weary, with her hands pressed upon her temples, trying to settle in what manner she should address her son upon this delicate subject. And Catherine forgot everything in the sketch before her, and the tumultuous, blissful, painful emotions it excited. An abyss was suddenly thrown open in the depths of her heart, whose existence was unsuspected till now. _Now_ was she sorry that the marriage between Archer Clifton and his cousin, was broken off—by mutual consent? She tried very earnestly to feel sorry, for she believed it her duty to be so. She forced herself to remember Carolyn’s illness, and Archer’s own suffering, in consequence of the estrangement between them. But, oh! there lay that picture before her eyes, with her own plain face idealized, glorified up to a high, pure, divine beauty, such as it had never, even in her highest, holiest, most inspired moods, possessed. And a voice from her profound heart whispered—“Oh, yes, and he could make me really beautiful and glorious as his ideal there—for he could make me good, and glad, and great beyond whatever I could make myself—if he chose!” She reproached her heart severely for its seductive whisper. She offered up a silent prayer to God to forgive her, and save her soul from secret sin. She called herself foolish, presumptuous, treacherous. But, oh! in spite of all these, would sparkle up from the depths of her spirit, sprays of gladness, as if there had suddenly sprung within an everlasting fountain of joy. Yet again she blamed herself most bitterly. She repeated that despairing complaint or confession of David—“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.” She almost realized its truth. She silently cried to God to enter her heart, and expel its secret sin. “Well, child! are you ready!” inquired Mrs. Clifton, withdrawing her hands from her temples, and looking towards the entranced girl. Kate did not hear or see, her soul and senses were absorbed in the subject before her. Yet she did not think or hope about the future. It was the present, the present that absorbed her heart, despite of will, resistance and conscience. “Kate! are you asleep or in a trance?” asked the lady, gazing at her. The maiden started, and blushed deeply. “Catherine! what are you thinking of?” she repeated, fixing her dark eyes upon the girl, until they seemed to burn into her soul.