Catherine found it so. The soft, bright, drooping curls shaded and rounded her large, square forehead into beautiful proportion to her other features, and softened the expression of the whole. No girl but is pleased to see herself improved in beauty, and it was with a bright blush, half of pleasure, half of modesty, that the maiden returned to the lady’s side. “Now, dear Kate, you must leave off that dingy gingham, and wear white wrappers in the morning. It is early in the season, and you can wear white a month longer yet, and by the end of that time, I suppose, the world will expect you to wear black. You have no white wrappers though, my dear!” “No, madam, I never had one.” “Well, you have two white cambric dresses, without ornament, they will do for morning dresses. Do me the kindness to wear them. Nay, now, Catherine, my dear, no hesitation, I will have it so. Go at once and put on one of them.” Kate complied, and in a short time returned to the parlor—by this change in the style of her toilet, almost transfigured, yet without the loss of her noble characteristics. One thought troubled the maiden, the question—What would Clifton think of this? How would he take it? Would he suspect that she had dressed for his eyes? If he did his suspicions would be well founded. And the consciousness of this truth, suffused with blushes the cheeks of the ingenuous girl, and heightened all her beauty. There was no certainty of Major Clifton’s advent that day—he might come any day, but nevertheless they hoped for and expected his arrival. By a change in the hours, the stage now reached L—— at noon. And Mrs. Clifton had ordered dinner in the full expectation of having her son’s company at that meal. Nor were their hopes destined to disappointment. A little after one o’clock, the carriage that had been sent to L—— to meet the stage, returned and drove up to the door. And Archer Clifton alighted from it, and hastened joyfully into the house. Mrs. Clifton arose to meet him, but, overpowered by agitation and weakness, she sank back into her seat. Her son was before her in an instant, and had clasped her in his arms, and pressed her to his breast, and kissed her fondly many times, and sat her back in her chair to feast his eyes upon her beloved face and form, before he noticed how cadaverous, how death-like, she looked; then a startled expression of surprise and alarm sprung into his countenance, and he turned upon Kate, to whom he had not yet spoken, a glance of mingled inquiry, anger and reproach. “You find me in poor health, Archer; but not worse, my son, than what might have been expected.”