She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. ToC They had scarcely been gone a moment, when a confused noise was heard without, and Charcam re-entered the room, with a countenance of the utmost bewilderment and alarm. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. Wood had the advantage of her husband in point of years, being on the sunny side of forty,—a period pronounced by competent judges to be the most fascinating, and, at the same time, most critical epoch of woman's existence,—whereas, he was on the shady side of fifty,—a term of life not generally conceived to have any special recommendation in female eyes. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful. " Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.
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