There was something that almost froze my blood in the way she said those last words, lying back upon the sofa with far-off-looking eyes and hands clasped beneath her head.

“Miriam,” she said, after a while, “life is a humbug.  I have thought so for some time.”

“Poor child, poor child!”

“Ay, poorer than the poorest, Miriam Harz,” and, laying aside my work, I went to and knelt beside her, and kissed her brow.

“I have no soul to open!  I am as empty as a chrysalis-case, that the butterfly has gone out of to dwell amid sunshine and flowers.  Yet I believe I had one once”—­in ineffably mournful accents—­“but two men killed it; and yet, neither intended the blow!  O Miriam!  I understand at last what Coleridge meant by his ‘life in death.’  There is such a thing—­and that great necromancer found it out!  I am the breathing impersonation of that loathly thing, I believe.  Listen”—­and she sat up with one raised finger and gave the poet’s words with rare expression: 

    “’The nightmare—­life in death was she,
        That chilled men’s blood with cold.’

“Doesn’t that describe me as I am, Miriam?”

“You are, indeed, much changed, Bertie; perhaps it would be well could you confide in me.”

“No, it would not be well!  I never could keep any thing wholly to myself, neither can I tell it wholly, even to such as you—­reticent! merciful!  But this believe, I have done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of, to wear sackcloth and ashes for, and I am preparing to put my foot on it all.  Ay, from the snake’s head of first discovery to the snake’s tail of the last disappointment, ranging over half a dozen years!  A long serpent, truly!” laughing.  “But I mean to be galvanized and get back my life.  I am determined to be famous, rich, beautiful!” and she nodded to me with the old sweet sparkle in her eye, the glad smile on her lip.

“You laugh at the last threat!—­laugh on!  ’He who laughs best, laughs last!’ says the old proverb.  There is such a thing as training one’s features, isn’t there, as well as one’s setters?  Miriam, I shall develop slowly; I am still in my very downiest adolescence as to looks.  You will see me when I have filled out and ripened, and when I put on my grand Marie Antoinette tenu, some day!  Hair drawn back, a la Pompadour, powdered with gold-dust; a touch of rouge, perhaps, on either cheek; ruffles of rich lace at shoulders and elbows; pink brocade and emeralds, picked out with diamonds!  Mr. Mortimer’s teachings in every graceful movement!  It will be all humbug, for I have no real beauty, not much grace; but people will think me beautiful and graceful for all that, while I wear my costumes.  They are several—­this is only one—­all highly becoming!  I have a vision of a sea-green dress and moss-roses; of a violet-satin robe, trimmed and twisted everywhere with flowers of yellow jasmine; of pale-gold and tipped marabouts in my hair; also of an azure silk with blond and pearls and a tiara on my forehead” (she laughed archly).  “You don’t know my capabilities, my dear, for appearing to look well—­they are wonderful!”