“Come, Rosalia,” said he, and drawing her arm through his own, and descending the stone stairs, he handed the pale and trembling girl into the carriage—she turned around to take a last view of her late home, and her eye fell upon _this picture_, a picture ever after distinctly present to her mind—the portico, with its slender white marble pillars visible in the grey of the morning, the front door partly open, revealing the lamplight in the passage-way, which struck across the stone floor and fell upon the haggard form and face of Hagar, as she stood there in her desolation, as she stood there leaning against the pillar, with her pale countenance struck out into ghastly relief by the dishevelled black hair falling down each side of her cheeks, and meeting the black boddice of her dress; but one glimpse Rosalia caught of that death-like face seen through the cold grey morning light, and against and intercepting the glancing and oblique rays of the gleaming lamplight, but one glimpse as the carriage door closed upon her, yet that despairing look was never absent from her mind; it went with her on her journey, pursued her through life, and unto death. The carriage rolled away, and Hagar, turning, fell lifeless upon the threshold of her own door! CHAPTER XXXII. THE TEMPTED ANGEL. “A spirit pure as hers Is always pure, e’en when it errs, As sunshine broken in the rill, Though turned astray is sunshine still.” MOORE. “You are weeping, Rosalia; why do you weep?” asked Raymond Withers, taking the seat by her side as soon as the carriage door was closed upon them; “why do you weep so, dear Rosalia?” “Alas!” “And why ‘alas,’ Rose?” “Hagar! Hagar!” “And what about her?” “She suffers so! she suffers so!” “_Can_ she suffer, Rosalia? _can_ her fierce, high nature suffer _at all_, Rosalia?” “Oh, can’t you see it; can’t you see it?” “I can see she is angry and defiant; but for the rest, Rosalia, I never saw her shed a tear in my life; did you?” “No.” “When _you_ suffer you weep, do you not?” “Yes.” “Always?” “Oh, yes!” “Very well then, Rose; when you see or hear that Hagar Withers _weeps_, believe that she sorrows, and not _till_ then; you are weeping still; weep on my bosom, Rose!” and he drew her within his arms and laid her head against his breast. The carriage stopped at the steamboat hotel upon the river’s side, the boat had not yet arrived, though day was breaking fast, and the Eastern horizon already looking rosy. Raymond Withers took Rosalia into the parlor of the hotel, and having seated her, went out and dismissed the carriage, and returning to her, said, “Remain here, dear Rosalia, until I step to the Post-office to see if there be any letter come in last night’s mail for any of us. I will return in five minutes.”