At the opposite side of the table, and busy in the preparation of the breakfast, stood a young girl whose age could not have been more than eighteen. So striking was the resemblance between them that the least acute of physiognomists must have pronounced her the daughter. She was dressed with remarkable simplicity; but not all the absence of ornament could detract from the first impression her appearance conveyed, that she was one of birth and station. Her beauty was of that character which, although attributed peculiarly to the Celtic race, seems strangely enough to present its most striking examples among the Anglo-Irish. Rich auburn hair, the color varying from dark brown to a deep golden hue as the light falls more or less strongly on it, was braided over a brow of classic beauty; her eyes were of blue, that deep color which, in speaking or in moments of excitement, looks like dark hazel or even black; these were fringed with long dark lashes which habitually hung heavily over the eyes, giving them a character of sleepy, almost indolent, beauty. The rest of her features, in unison with these, were of that Greek mould which our historians attribute to the Phoenician origin of our people,--a character by no means rare to be seen to this day among the peasantry. If the mild and gentle indications of womanly delicacy were told in every lineament of her face, there were traits of decision and determination when she spoke not less evident. From her mother she inherited the placid tenderness of English manner, while from her father her nature imbibed the joyous animation and buoyant light-heartedness of the Irish character. “And there are but two letters, Mamma,” said Helen, “in the bag this morning?” “But two,” said Lady Eleanor; “one of them from Lionel.” “Oh, from Lionel!” cried the young girl, eagerly; “let me see it.” “Read this first,” said Lady Eleanor, as she handed across the table a letter bearing a large seal impressed with an Earl's coronet; “if I mistake not very much, Helen, that's my cousin Lord Netherby's writing; but what eventful circumstance could have caused his affectionate remembrance of me, after something nigh twenty years' silence, is beyond my power of divination.” Helen Darcy well knew that the theme on which her mother now touched was the sorest subject on her mind, and, however anxiously she might, under other circumstances, have pressed for a sight of her brother's letter, she controlled all appearance of the wish, and opened the other without speaking. “It is dated from Carlton House, Mamma, the 2d------” “He is in waiting, I suppose,” said Lady Eleanor, calmly; and Helen began. “'My dear cousin--'” “Ah! so he remembers the relationship at least,” muttered the old lady to herself.