“It is a very lonely place though, Miss Harz, in the winter-time—­mamma ought to tell you that,” whispered Marion, the eldest daughter, as she nestled so closely to me, and looked so kindly in my face, that the intruding thought of her unwillingness for my society was instantly banished.  “In the summer it is pleasant enough, so many people come to their cottages in the hills; but, during eight months of the year, we have but one near neighbor, and not a very social one either.”

“From circumstances alone unsocial, Marion,” said Madame La Vigne, flushing slightly (her usual complexion was of a fair sallowness, common to Southern ladies).  “Cousin Celia is certainly devoted at heart to every one of us, but she cannot, you know, leave home often.”

“Oh, I know, mamma!  I only meant to keep Miss Harz from being disappointed.”

“Miss Harz has internal resources, I have no doubt,” rejoined Madame La Vigne; “and, even if she had not, I fear her duties would preclude much longing for excitement.—­It is a very onerous task you are undertaking, my dear young lady, certainly,” turning kindly to me.  “Five ignorant little Southern girls, well disposed but imperfectly trained, will fill your hands to positive overflowing, I fear.  You will find me exacting, too, sometimes.  I am sure I shall enjoy your society whenever you choose to bestow it on me, and Colonel La Vigne as well.”

To which declaration on the part of his wife, that gentleman responded by laying his hand on his breast, complacently, and bowing profoundly from his chair, ending the ceremony by a flourish of his delicate cambric handkerchief, and the exhibition at the same time of a slender, sickly, and peculiarly-shaped hand, decorated with an onyx seal-ring.  He looked the gentleman, however, unmistakably plain and peculiar as his appearance was, and pompous and pretentious as was his manner.

If words could do the work of the photographer, I should like to show him to my readers, as he appeared to me on that first interview; though later his whole aspect underwent a change in my sight, reflected from the cavernous depths within, so that, what seemed somewhat ludicrous in the beginning, came to be solemnly serious and even sophistically tragical and awful on later acquaintance.

We have all more or less witnessed this phenomenon of transformation in some familiar aspect, either through love or hatred, respect or contempt, fear or admiration, until we find ourselves marveling at past impressions, received, in ignorance of the truth, in the commencement of our observations.

I remember that Mr. La Vigne struck me on that occasion as a superficial man in every way, but kindly, courteous, and vivacious, though certainly eccentric and somewhat absurd.  One would have supposed him even a flippant, whimsical person, seen casually; but, on later examination, the droop of his eyelids and under lip, and the depressed corners of his mouth, gave to the close observer a surer indication of his character.