On a sumptuous sofa of the richest Genoese velvet, sat two young ladies, whose costly dresses were admirably fitted to their forms, and so arranged as to betray their charms to the most casual observer. One of them, to whom Blodget addressed himself on entering, was not tall in stature but of exquisite symmetry. Her complexion, though that of a brunette, was so transparent, and the rose on her cheeks was so brilliant, that one would scarcely have noticed that she was darker than her companion. A pair of lustrous large black eyes beamed from beneath a profusion of raven tresses, and the clearly defined, arched eye-brows appeared to have been drawn by the pencil of a skilful painter. The upper moiety of two well rounded globes was displayed by the low dress, while the little foot and beautiful ankle were not covered by the long drapery in vogue with the daughters of a more northern clime.—Whether her mouth was made for speaking or kissing, might have been a question with naturalists and men of _vertu_; but most men would have decided practically in favor of the latter view. It was, indeed, a mouth that spoke eloquently while silent, like one of those sea shells which one sometimes finds in the Orient, ruddy and of voluptuous form. ‘Mr. Blodget is come again. Very welcome Mr. Blodget,’ said the fair creature. ‘I wait much for see you, and never see you no more.’ But while addressing Blodget, she fixed her speaking eyes on Monteagle and surveyed his features and fine form with evident admiration. The other girl was taller and fairer, with a majestic neck, blue eyes, and brown hair, the ringlets bursting from her head dress and showering over her well-turned shoulders. She smiled and showed pearls, she walked and exhibited grace and voluptuous proportions. She spoke and music fell from her lips. Monteagle, aided by the champagne that he had drank, made himself agreeable very soon—sooner than propriety would have required had not his fair friends been accustomed to impromptu friends and acquaintances. The sound of voices and occasional laughter in a neighboring apartment gave evidence that there were more of the fair consolers in the house, and that other men, beside Blodget and Monteagle, were regaling their eyes with feminine loveliness. A few moments conversation sufficed to show that the dark eyed girl was a native of South America, while the other had been born and brought up in the land of Johnny Bull, though her accent betrayed that her earlier days had been spent in the ‘North Countrie.’ She was one of Burns’ beauties, and how so fair a flower, who, even now seemed to have retained some portion of her modesty, should ever have found her way to a house of this description on the distant shores of California, was a problem which Monteagle found difficult to solve. Throwing himself on a sofa and putting his arm around her slender waist, Monteagle said—‘Were not you and I acquainted in the old country?’