But Margaret took her time before giving a hint of her heart’s condition.  She was the same old comrade to us, she confided to us her adverse opinions of other people, laughed with us, and often at us (when it was like as not that she herself had made us ridiculous), told us her little secrets, let us share her gaiety and her dejection alike, teased us, soothed us, made us serve her, and played the spoiled beauty with us to the full of the part.  And a beauty she was, indeed; ten times more than in her childhood.  The bud was approaching its full bloom.  She was of the average tallness; slender at neck, waist, wrist, and ankle, but filling out well in the figure, which had such curves as I swear I never saw elsewhere upon earth.  She had the smallest foot, with the highest instep; such as one gets not often an idea of in England.  Her little head, with its ripples of chestnut hair, sat like that of a princess; and her face, oval in shape, proud and soft by turns in expression—­I have no way of conveying the impression it gave one, but to say that it made me think of a nosegay of fresh, flawless roses, white and red.  Often, by candle-light, especially if she were dressed for a ball, or sat at the play, I would liken her to some animate gem, without the hardness that belongs to real precious stones; for indeed she shone like a jewel, thanks to the lustre of her eyes in artificial light.  Whether from humidity or some quality of their substance, I do not know, but they reflected the rays as I have rarely seen eyes do; and in their luminosity her whole face seemed to have part, so that her presence had an effect of warm brilliancy that lured and dazzled you.  To see her emerge from the darkness of the Faringfield coach, or from her sedan-chair, into the bright light of open doorways and of lanterns held by servants, was to hold your breath and stand with lips parted in admiration, until she made you feel your nothingness by a haughty indifference in passing, or sent you glowing to the seventh heaven by a radiant smile.

While we were waiting for the heart of our paragon to reveal itself, life in Queen Street was diversified, in the Fall of 1773, by an unexpected visit.

Mr. Faringfield and Philip, as they entered the dining-room one evening after their return from the warehouse, observed that an additional place had been made at the table.  Without speaking, the merchant looked inquiringly, and with a little of apprehension, at his lady.

“Ned has come back,” she answered, trying to speak as if this were quite cheerful news.

Mr. Faringfield’s face darkened.  Then, with some sarcasm, he said: 

“He did not go out of his way to stop at the warehouse in coming from the landing.”

“Why, no doubt the ship did not anchor near our wharf.  He came by the Sophy brig.  He took some tea, and changed his clothes, and went out to meet a fellow passenger at the coffee-house.  They had some business together.”