sat on his lips, and his voice was harsh.  Perdita was all kindness and attention to her lord; but she was silent, and beyond words sad.  She had grown thin and pale; and her eyes often filled with tears.  Sometimes she looked at Raymond, as if to say—­That it should be so!  At others her countenance expressed—­I will still do all I can to make you happy.  But Adrian read with uncertain aim the charactery of her face, and might mistake.—­Clara was always with her, and she seemed most at ease, when, in an obscure corner, she could sit holding her child’s hand, silent and lonely.  Still Adrian was unable to guess the truth; he entreated them to visit us at Windsor, and they promised to come during the following month.

It was May before they arrived:  the season had decked the forest trees with leaves, and its paths with a thousand flowers.  We had notice of their intention the day before; and, early in the morning, Perdita arrived with her daughter.  Raymond would follow soon, she said; he had been detained by business.  According to Adrian’s account, I had expected to find her sad; but, on the contrary, she appeared in the highest spirits:  true, she had grown thin, her eyes were somewhat hollow, and her cheeks sunk, though tinged by a bright glow.  She was delighted to see us; caressed our children, praised their growth and improvement; Clara also was pleased to meet again her young friend Alfred; all kinds of childish games were entered into, in which Perdita joined.  She communicated her gaiety to us, and as we amused ourselves on the Castle Terrace, it appeared that a happier, less care-worn party could not have been assembled.  “This is better, Mamma,” said Clara, “than being in that dismal London, where you often cry, and never laugh as you do now.”—­“Silence, little foolish thing,” replied her mother, “and remember any one that mentions London is sent to Coventry for an hour.”

Soon after, Raymond arrived.  He did not join as usual in the playful spirit of the rest; but, entering into conversation with Adrian and myself, by degrees we seceded from our companions, and Idris and Perdita only remained with the children.  Raymond talked of his new buildings; of his plan for an establishment for the better education of the poor; as usual Adrian and he entered into argument, and the time slipped away unperceived.

We assembled again towards evening, and Perdita insisted on our having recourse to music.  She wanted, she said, to give us a specimen of her new accomplishment; for since she had been in London, she had applied herself to music, and sang, without much power, but with a great deal of sweetness.  We were not permitted by her to select any but light-hearted melodies; and all the Operas of Mozart were called into service, that we might choose the most exhilarating of his airs.  Among the other transcendant attributes of Mozart’s music, it possesses more than any other that of appearing to come from the heart; you