She had entered the room from her walk, warm and careless; her hair, than which none was more beautiful, had strayed on her shoulders, freed, from the confinement of the comb, and a lock was finely contrasted to the rich color of a cheek that almost burnt with the exercise and the excitement.  Her dress, white as the first snow of the winter; her looks, as she now turned them on the face of the sleeper, and betrayed by their animation the success of her art; formed a picture in itself, that Denbigh would have been content to gaze on for ever.  Her back was to a window that threw its strong light on the paper—­the figures of which were reflected, as she occasionally held it up to study its effect, in a large mirror so placed that Denbigh caught a view of her subject.  He knew it at a glance—­the arbor—­the gun—­himself, all were there; it appeared to have been drawn before—­it must have been, from its perfect state, and Emily had seized a favorable moment to complete his own resemblance.  Her touches were light and finishing, and as the picture was frequently held up for consideration, he had some time allowed for studying it.  His own resemblance was strong; his eyes were turned on herself, to whom Denbigh thought she had not done ample justice, but the man who held the gun bore no likeness to John Moseley, except in dress.  A slight movement of the muscles of the sleeper’s mouth might have betrayed his consciousness, had not Emily been too intent on the picture, as she turned it in such a way that a strong light fell on the recoiling figure of Captain Jarvis.  The resemblance was wonderful.  Denbigh thought he would have known it, had he seen it in the Academy itself.  The noise of some one approaching closed the portfolio; it was only a servant, yet Emily did not resume her pencil.  Denbigh watched her motions, as she put the picture carefully in a private drawer of the secretary, reopened the blind, replaced the screen, and laid the handkerchief, the last thing on his face, with a movement almost imperceptible to himself.

“It is later than I thought,” said Denbigh, looking at his watch; “I owe an apology, Miss Moseley, for making so free with your parlor; but I was too lazy to move.”

“Apology!  Mr. Denbigh,” cried Emily, with a color varying with every word she spoke, and trembling at what she thought the nearness of detection, “you have no apology to make for your present debility; and surely, surely, least of all to me!”

“I understand from Mr. Moseley,” continued Denbigh, with a smile, “that our obligation is at least mutual; to your, perseverance and care, Miss Moseley, after the physicians had given me up, I believe I am, under Providence, indebted for my recovery.”