“Couldn’t think of it! The first ten words would break my heart into ten thousand splinters. Besides, I never could endure mysteries,” cried the young lady, letting down a superb mop of yellow hair, which shimmered like sunbeams over her shoulders, and posing herself before the mirror, as it revealed her lovely person from head to foot. “My life,” moaned Aunt Eliza, “has both a mystery and a history, which will be found written on my soul, when this poor body, once so tenderly beloved, is laid in the dust.” “Under the daisies would be prettier, I think,” replied Georgiana, braiding her hair with breathless haste, in two gorgeous bands, while Miss Eliza was talking. “A great deal prettier. There, now, tell me if you like this.” The fair girl had woven the heavy braids of hair around her queenly head, forming a coronet of living gold above a forehead white as snow, on which the delicate veins might be traced like blue shadows. “This is the way I intend to wear it, with the garland of pearls in front. Won’t it be lovely?” “No!” said Miss Eliza, shaking her head. “There was a time——” “Yes, yes! I understand! The skirt will be white satin, the tunic blue velvet, with a border of ermine so deep.” Miss Eliza came out of her own history long enough to notice that the ermine border would be at least six inches deep; then she retired into herself again, and sighed heavily; and, dropping her head on one hand, fell into a mournful reverie. “Shall I wear a chain, or a collar of gold?” said Georgiana. “Yes, it was one chain of flowers,” murmured Miss Eliza, exploring her life backward. “Such flowers as only grow on the banks of Eden.” “I am afraid Rowena could have sported nothing but wild flowers—a garland of hawthorn-blossoms, or a bouquet of primroses,” said Georgiana, crossing some scarlet ribbons sandal-wise over her ankles, and regarding the effect with great satisfaction. “Rowena! Rowena! I mentioned no such name. Indeed, I never do mention names,” cried Miss Eliza, arousing herself, and setting upright. “Heaven forbid that I should ever be left to mention names.” The old maid, for such I am pained to say, Miss Eliza Halstead was, arose solemnly, as she said this, and waving her niece off with a sweep of both hands worthy of a wind-mill in full motion, began to pace up and down the room with long and measured steps, that gave a tragic air to the scene. “How about the pearls?” questioned Georgie, tying the scarlet ribbon in a dainty little bow. “We haven’t much time. It is getting dark, now, and one doesn’t step out of a Waverly novel, in full rig, without lots of preparation. Mine is the fourth tableau.” “Tableau? Ah, yes! I remember you were going to stand up as——” “As Rowena, in Ivanhoe.”