womanly frankness of a noble and generous disposition. Still, it was of no avail to reason with myself, nor to upbraid myself. Pertinaciously the thought, "Zenobia is a wife,—Zenobia has lived and loved! There is no folded petal, no latent dew-drop, in this perfectly-developed rose!"—irresistibly that thought drove out all other conclusions, as often as my mind reverted to the subject.
Zenobia was conscious of my observation, though not, I presume, of the point to which it led me.
"Mr. Coverdale," said she, one day, as she saw me watching her, while she arranged my gruel on the table, "I have been exposed to a great deal of eye-shot in the few years of my mixing in the world, but never, I think, to precisely such glances as you are in the habit of favoring me with. I seem to interest you very much; and yet—or else a woman's instinct is for once deceived—I cannot reckon you as an admirer. What are you seeking to discover in me?"
"The mystery of your life," answered I, surprised into the truth by the unexpectedness of her attack. "And you will never tell me."
She bent her head towards me, and let me look into her eyes, as if challenging me to drop a plummet-line down into the depths of her consciousness.
"I see nothing now," said I, closing my own eyes, "unless it be the face of a sprite laughing at me from the bottom of a deep well."
A bachelor always feels himself defrauded, when he knows, or suspects, that any woman of his acquaintance has given herself away. Otherwise, the matter could have been no concern of mine. It was purely speculative; for I should not, under any circumstances, have
