She had the bloom of Holland in her cheek, and the grace of Spain in her carriage and bearing. An exquisite costume of pale yellow silk became the brunette character of her beauty well; creamy lace fell away in folds from the snowy arms it revealed; perfume, brilliance, and softness were about her. There was a step on the gravel; her colour deepened. 'Morganstjern--Cousin Maurice!' she muttered with a tone of annoyance, as he approached her with hat in hand. Would this creature, so incomparably lovely and winning, ever belong to him, and lie in his bosom? he was thinking as he surveyed her; was she not rather drifting away from him, and would soon, unless he took strong and sure measures with yonder accursed Schottlander, be lost to him and his world for ever? 'Always becomingly dressed, Dolores,' said he, stooping over her; 'but this costume especially suits your style of loveliness.' 'You must not say such things to me,' she replied with some asperity. 'How--why?' 'I mean such pretty or complimentary things, Maurice Morganstjern; because if you do----' 'What then?' 'I shall think that I have forfeited your friendship.' 'Friendship!' said he gloomily; 'how long will you seem to misunderstand me?' Try as she might, Dolores could not feel kindly or well disposed towards her cousin Morganstjern, and her replies to him always sounded cold and formal, or taunting even to herself; and the face that bent over her was, she knew, not a good one, but sinister, and expressive of a bad and evil spirit within. And now, as a somewhat palpable hint that his conversation wearied or worried her, she took up her flageolet, and putting the ivory mouthpiece to her rosy lips, began to play a sweet little air, while his brow became darker, for this now obsolete instrument (which had silver stops like the old English flute) had been a gift of Lewie Baronald's, who, in the gallantry of the day, had inserted a copy of verses addressed to herself, and which, of course, would only be found when the instrument was unscrewed to discover what marred its use. Anon she paused; Maurice Morganstjern then glanced towards the Countess, and perceiving that she still slept, drew nearer to Dolores, and lowering his voice, said: 'Can you not love me a little, cousin?' 'Not as you wish,' she replied. 'Why?' The musical voice of Dolores broke into a soft little laugh as she fanned herself, and said: 'Simply because one cannot love two persons at once.' 'Meaning that you love this--this accursed Schottlander?' he hissed through his set teeth. 'Oh, Maurice! how can you be so rude as to speak thus of any visitor of mamma's!' 'Listen to me, Cousin Dolores,' he resumed, making a prodigious effort to be calm. 'Well,' asked the girl, with something of petulance. 'I am probably to be sent to Paris.' 'Indeed--for what purpose?' 'In the interests of the patriots here.' 'And against the Prince of Orange?' 'Yes--of course.'