She was seated on the sofa, her noble form clad in the white silken robe--her hands clasped--her golden hair unbound--her neck and shoulders bare: and the same light hanging from the ceiling, which disclosed the details of that luxurious chamber--carpet, chairs, sofa, mirror, and the snow-white couch in a distant recess--fell upon her beautiful countenance, and revealed the remorse that was written there. There was a wild, startled look in her blue eyes; her lips were apart; her cheek was now, pale as death, and then, flushed with the scarlet hues of unavailing shame. He was reclining at her feet; his arm resting on the sofa; his face upturned--his eyes gazing into hers. Clad in the costume of the white monk--a loose robe of white cloth, with wide sleeves, edged with red--Beverly Barron toyed with his flaxen curls, as he looked into her face, and remarked her with a look of mingled meaning. There was base appetite, gratified vanity, but no remorse in his look. And the light fell on his florid face, with its sensual mouth, receding chin, wide nostrils, and bullet-shaped forehead, encircled by ringlets of flaxen hair--a face altogether _animal_, with scarcely a single ray of a higher nature, to light up or refine its grossness. "Fallen!" cried Joanna; and clasped her hands, and shuddered, as if with cold. "Never mind, dear," said Beverly, and he bent forward and kissed her hands--"I will love you always!" "Oh, my God!"--and in that ejaculation, all the agony of her soul found utterance,--"Oh, my God! my child!" Beverly knelt at her feet, and kissed her clenched hands, and endeavored to soothe her with professions of undying love; but she tore her hands from his grasp-- "My husband! How can I ever look into his face again!" Had you seen that noble form, swelling in every fiber; had you seen the silken robe, heaved upward by the agony which filled her bosom; had you seen the look, so wild--remorseful--almost mad--which stamped her face,--you would have felt the emphasis with which she uttered these terrible words, "My husband! How can I ever look into his face again!" "Your husband," whispered Beverly, with something of the devil in his eyes, "your husband, even now, is on his way to Boston, where the chosen mistress of his heart awaits him. His brother is at the point of death, is he? ha, ha, Joanna! 'Twas a good excuse, but, like all excuses, rather lame--when found out. The poor, good, dear Joanna, sits at home, pining at her husband's absence, while he, the faithful Eugene, consoles himself in the arms of his Boston love!" "It cannot be! it cannot be!" cried Joanna, beating the carpet with her foot, and pressing her clenched hands against her heaving breast.