Rosalia dropped her hands, clasping them together, and so left the room, passed down stairs in a dreary, bewildering sorrow, and entered the dusky drawing-room. _Raymond Withers was reclining with veiled eyes, in a day-dream on the lounge._ Seeing him she went and sank down on the carpet by his side, dropping her head upon the side of the lounge in childlike sorrow and humility, exclaiming— “Oh! Raymond, my heart is broken, _broken_! I am chilled to death in this cold, _cold_ place—oh! Raymond, where on the wide sea are my friends? Send me to them—_do_, Raymond; I shall _die_ if I stay here—_die—die_! I shall!” and heart-breaking sobs burst from her lips between every sentence. Up sprang Raymond from his recumbent position, exclaiming as the fire shot through his spirit-piercing blue eyes— “Has Hagar! has that kite, that wild-cat of mine been teasing you, poor dove?” “Don’t! hush! no!—oh, don’t call her ill names! don’t—it is so dreadful in _you two_ to quarrel so!” He was looking straight in her face. “It kills me to see it, Raymond! Oh! do send me to Captain Wilde and Sophie. I cannot please you two, though I have tried so hard to be good—oh! haven’t I? But you don’t love me, and you don’t seem to love each other; and you make each other suffer so much—_you two!_ and you make _me_ suffer so much—and great God! what is it all about?” Her tears gushed forth again, she buried her face in the cushions of the lounge, and sobbed as though her heart were struggling in its death throes. _His_ manner changed; he governed himself, or rather he resumed his usual tranquillity of attitude and expression, leaning over her fair head, while his elbow rested on the end of the lounge, and his moist and dishevelled golden locks trailed over the delicate white hand that supported his cheek; with the other hand he stroked her hair, stroked it down and down, while her bosom rose and fell, and sobbed itself into quietness. She was at rest—sweetly at rest. It seemed as if, baby-like, she had wept herself sleepy there, kneeling on the carpet by his side, with her face upon the cushions of his lounge, his delicate hand stroking her head. She was going to sleep; the sobs and sighs came deeper and at long and longer intervals; at last they ceased entirely, her head gradually turned upon its side, and she lay there in the sweet, deep slumber of a child that has cried itself to sleep. How beautiful she was in her unconscious innocence! Her hands lay folded one over the other upon the cushion, and her side face rested upon them; tear-drops sparkled on her drooping eye-lashes and on her glowing cheeks like bright dew on the red rose; her fresh lips were slightly apart, revealing the small pearly teeth, and her golden hair fell in moist and tangled ringlets over her.