Look at her as she lies there, with the light of the afternoon on her countenance. Can you not see how she has suffered--how mental torture has worn her face thin; how it has imprinted lines upon her brow, and laced her golden hair with threads of grey? She can count but forty-seven years, and yet she is an aged woman; for grief is even more powerful to destroy than time. The light has long since left those mournful eyes, the roses have long since faded from those worn cheeks, and the mouth is now set in fretful lines which were not there in early days. The features alone retain their beauty. Her straight nose, curved lips, firmly moulded chin, and high forehead are as if carved in ivory, for long seclusion from fresh air and tinting sunlight has imparted a yellowish hue to the skin. And the countless wrinkles round the mouth, under the eyes, and across the forehead, tell their own tale of mental agonies, of tearful hours, of sleepless nights. Sorrow had set her unmistakable seal on the face, and had rendered it haggard before its time. Wan countenance, inert figure, listless hands, and hopeless looks--a mournful spectacle this of sadness and despair. Yet she was still careful of her dress. No fault could be found with the grey silk tea-gown, adorned with lace at wrists and throat, or with the dainty slipper on the slender foot. Grey as was her hair, yet the undying coquetry of the feminine nature impelled her to coil it smoothly, and scatter it in crisp curls. When her hands moved, diamond rings glittered on the fingers, and her lean wrists were encircled with costly bracelets. She was aged before her time, she was lonely, she was filled with despair; but the woman in her still bade her tire her head, deck herself with gems, clothe herself in rich garments, and make the most of what was left to her. Meg sat in the armchair close to the couch. A greater contrast than the exuberant vitality of this girl, beside the etiolated looks of the elder woman, can scarcely be imagined. Bright eyes, rosy cheeks, restless hands--there was life in every movement; while Miss Linisfarne, listless and weary, looked as though the blood were stagnant in her veins. The girl still wore her rough serge dress, and her heavily shod feet looked clumsy beside the dainty slimness of Miss Linisfarne's slippers. Her hair was roughened by the wind, her hands were brown and scarred, and she spoke in a clear hearty voice, which contrasted strongly with the faint tones of her hostess. She brought into the room a breath of the woodlands, an odour of earth, of pine, of salt wave, and breezy down. Her very presence seemed to invigorate the pale invalid, who looked at her so kindly. As Antæus drew vigour from his parent earth, so did Miss Linisfarne draw fresh vitality from the animal healthfulness of her visitor.