The Evansville Journal

Full attention to the toilette, manners highly finished and graceful, a voice replete with courtesy—even tenderness.

Our conversation naturally turned upon West Indian life, and I expressed a fervent desire to witness the strange beauty and luxuriance of its vegetable and animal life. He turned his eyes full upon me with a searching look.

"Yes: their life and climate would just suit your temperament—warm, passionate, luxuriously indolent. You should live there."

I colored, and replied with a saucy toss of the head, that if he could see me sometimes, he would not call me lazy.

"Perhaps not; there is a fire slumbering dangerously near the surface. I allow," was his low-toned reply, keeping his dreamy eyes on my face; "but repose suits your style better than action, I should judge. Do you sing?"

"A little."

"May I hear you?"

I immediately obeyed, for his words, though in the form of a request, were a positive command, and took my seat at the piano.

I suddenly remembered an old air of tempest and death that I had heard when a little child, and trusting to inspiration, swept the keys and burst into a wild, impassioned melody. I was completely lost in my theme, and, as the last notes died shudderingly away, I dashed the tears from my eyes and turned, but gave a frightened scream at the apparition before me!

The two gentlemen were gazing at me, perfectly oblivious of all else; but behind them, in the doorway, stood a little figure with wide, staring eyes. It was Ianthe, her light robe falling around her, and her head bent forward, while a world of agonized wonder looked out from her eyes. At my cry, she glided away, and a minute after, I heard Mammy's voice chiding her in her strange, Indian gibberish.

A merry laugh and few careless words explained my agitation, and then followed an evening, to one, at least, almost heavy with impassioned rapture.

Every look and word of our guest drove the blood more swiftly through my veins, and thrilled along my nerves, until I felt as if the whole current of my life were changed.

Much to my grief, Mr. St. Clair left early in the morning, and I had only a wild, misty dream to comfort me; but on this I feasted, hoping for his next visit, which I felt sure would not be long delayed.

My little cousin, Ianthe, I found a strange perplexing study. All day long she would sit in a listless, dreamy way, never speaking, but with her wild, dark eyes fixed upon me. Sometimes she would caress the dog, or, at papa's hearty toss and merry laugh, a smile, like a flash of sunshine, would light up her face, which the next moment, would be buried in his bosom.

But she never caressed me—scarcely ever spoke, only watched every movement, until I felt a strange nervousness whenever in her presence.

At length, one day, I turned hastily, when unusually disturbed by her watchfulness, with the impatient words—“For Heaven's sake, Ianthe, what is there about me that makes you watch me so closely.'"

She drew a long sigh and clasped her hands as if in ecstacy. "Oh, if I were only beautiful, like you!" Then her luminous eyes grew misty with tears, and she covered them with her little brown hand.

I was by her side in a moment.

"Ianthe, my darling, you are pretty, child! You have lovely eyes, and if you will go out doors, run about and ride horseback, you will soon grow plump and rosy. But, after all, what does beauty amount to? It won't make people love you, unless you're good."

"Oh, if it would only make him look at me as he did at you, with all his heart in his eyes. Did you see him, Cousin Blanche? I would die for such a look!"

I gazed at the child in amazement, with a thrill, half of pain, half terror. I knew whom she meant, but I did not know she cared so much for St. Clair, and—shall I confess it?—the knowledge brought with it a jealous pang.

TO BE CONTINUED.