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"Yon gray lines It is the 20th of February; already winter is dying out of mind, and little flowers are springing everywhere. "I don't mean that; but how could you look?".

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That is the part you mean, is it not? I know all that poem very nearly by heart." "Was it you?" asks he, raising himself on his elbow to regard her earnestly, though very loath to quit the spot where late he has been tenant. "You? Oh, Mona!" It is a very pretty room, filled with a subdued light, and with a blazing fire at one end. All bespeaks warmth, and home, and comfort, but to Mona in her present state it is desolation itself. The three occupants of the room rise as she enters, and Mona's heart dies within her as a very tall statuesque woman, drawing herself up languidly from a lounging-chair, comes leisurely up to her. There is no welcoming haste in her movements, no gracious smile, for which her guest is thirsting, upon her thin lips. Alone disturb the stillness of the scene,".