"So do not I," said her uncle, in a low and altered tone. "I see in those glittering trinkets the departure of youth and of love, the wreck of the heart's best hopes and sweetest affections. To me they are mocking records of the past. As they fling back the taper's rays, they seem to boast,—'The heart was a game between us; you risked upon it passion, truth, belief, but we won the stake.'"
He sank back in his arm-chair, and riveted his gaze upon one of the portraits which hung on the gloomy walls. Almost unwittingly, Henrietta pursued the motion of his eyes, which rested intensely upon a picture that displayed herself, as a child of three years, her father, and her mother.
In Sir Henry Meredith's appearance there was nothing that won upon the sight, though the limner had done his best for him. The countenance had no character. But his consort was indeed lovely, like, and yet not like, the daughter who now watched her. There was the same rich complexion, although the features were of less perfect contour, the forehead more narrow, and the face devoid of the meaning which mind,
