As Mrs. McLean spoke, a figure issued from the tall larches on the left, and crossed the grass in front of them,—­a woman, something less tall than a gypsy queen might be, the round outlines of her form rich and regular, with a certain firm luxuriance, still wrapped in a morning-robe of palm-spread cashmere.  In her hand she carried various vines and lichens that had maintained their orange-tawny stains under the winter’s snow, and the black hair that was folded closely over forehead and temple was crowned with bent sprays of the scarlet maple-blossom.  As vivid a hue dyed her cheek through warm walking, and with a smile of unconscious content she passed quickly up the slope and disappeared within the doorway.  She impressed the senses of the beholder like some ripe and luscious fruit, a growth of sunshine and summer.

“Well,” said Mrs. McLean, drawing breath again, “who is it?”

“Really, I cannot tell,” replied Mr. Raleigh.

“Nor guess?”

“And that I dare not.”

“Must I tell you?”

“Was it Mrs. Laudersdale?”

“And shouldn’t you have known her?”

“Scarcely.”

“Mercy!  Then how did you know me?  She is unaltered.”

“If that is Mrs. Purcell, at the window, she does not recognize me, you
see; neither did -----.  Both she and yourself are nearly the same; one
could not fail to know either of you; but of the Mrs. Laudersdale of
thirteen years ago there remains hardly a vestige.”

If Mrs. McLean, at this testimony, indulged in that little inward satisfaction which the most generous woman may feel, when told that her color wears better than the color of her dearest friend, it must have been quickly quenched by the succeeding sentence.

“Yes, she is certainly more beautiful than I ever dreamed of a woman’s being.  If she continues, I do not know what perfect thing she will become.  She is too exquisite for common use.  I wonder her husband is not jealous of every mote in the air, of rain and wind, of every day that passes over her head,—­since each must now bear some charm from her in its flight.”

Mr. Raleigh was talking to Mrs. McLean as one frequently reposes confidence in a person when quite sure that he will not understand a word you say.

An hour afterward, Mrs. Purcell joined Mrs. McLean.

“So that is Mr. Raleigh, is it?” she said.  “He looks as if he had made the acquaintance of Siva the Destroyer.  There’s nothing left of him.  Is he taller, or thinner, or graver, or darker, or what?  My dear Kate, your cousin, that promised to be such a hero, has become a mere man-of-business.  Did you ever burn firecrackers?  You have probably found some that just fizzed out, then.”  And Mrs. Purcell took an attitude.

“Roger is a much finer man than he was, I think,—­so far as I could judge in the short time we have seen each other,” replied Mrs. McLean, with spirit.

“Do you know,” continued Mrs. Purcell, “what makes the Laudersdale so gay?  No?  She has a letter from her lord, and he brings you that little Rite next week.  I must send for the Colonel to see such patterns of conjugal felicity as you and she.  Ah, there is the tea-bell!”