Emily, by the expressed wish of her late husband, wore no mourning—her dress was that she always wore in-doors—a soft and full white muslin wrapper, descending from her full bust, and gathered around her slender waist by a cord and tassel. Her soft, silky black hair was parted over her forehead, and hung in thick ringlets that scarcely reached her bosom—she leaned back serenely with her hands resting on the arms of the slate-colored chair. Sophie Churchill’s clear olive complexion looked almost fair, contrasted with her smoothly braided brown hair, her large, melancholy brown eyes, and her brown silk dress. Sophie leaned over the elbow of the lounge towards her friend, whose chair was near that end. Kitty came in to lay the cloth for tea, and soon a round table stood on the floor covered by a snow-white damask cloth, white china tea service, and the nice light bread and hard golden-hued butter, and clear honey, with the seed cakes of Emily’s preparation. The tea was placed upon the table and their boarder summoned from the piazza, where he had been promenading. He came in. He came in, lifting his hat from his head, and placing it upon a side stand, slowly and gravely assumed the seat at the foot of the table where Emily and Sophie were already seated. They raised their eyes simultaneously to look at him, and at once the whole aspect of the room seemed changed—a funeral solemnity gathered over it. Sophie, attracted by one of those strange spells exercised by objects of terror over us, could not keep her large startled eyes off him—at last he raised his head and looked her full in the face—her eyes fell, and a visible shudder shook her frame—a just perceptible smile writhed the corner of his mouth as he withdrew his gaze from her. Sophie did not open her mouth to speak during the meal; Emily dispensed her hospitalities with her usual graceful ease. At the end of tea they arose, Kitty entered and cleared the table, and Mrs. May, making an apology, left the room to attend to some domestic matters. Sophie was now alone with the new preacher. She resumed her seat at the end of the lounge, he took the easy chair just vacated by Emily, and drawing it closer to the side of Miss Churchill, he stooped forward and inquired in his singularly sweet tones— “You live in this neighborhood, Miss Churchill?” “Yes, sir,” she said, and her eyes dropped, and the blood mounted to her brow, and receding, left it pale—again that singular smile curled the corner of his lip. “Far from this, Miss Churchill?” “I live at Heath Hall.” “Ah! and nearly quite alone, Miss Churchill, with only one aged female domestic and an infant—”