Zenobia was in the doorway, not far from Hollingsworth.  She gazed at Priscilla in a very singular way.  Indeed, it was a sight worth gazing at, and a beautiful sight, too, as the fair girl sat at the feet of that dark, powerful figure.  Her air, while perfectly modest, delicate, and virgin-like, denoted her as swayed by Hollingsworth, attracted to him, and unconsciously seeking to rest upon his strength.  I could not turn away my own eyes, but hoped that nobody, save Zenobia and myself, was witnessing this picture.  It is before me now, with the evening twilight a little deepened by the dusk of memory.

“Come hither, Priscilla,” said Zenobia.  “I have something to say to you.”

She spoke in little more than a whisper.  But it is strange how expressive of moods a whisper may often be.  Priscilla felt at once that something had gone wrong.

“Are you angry with me?” she asked, rising slowly, and standing before Zenobia in a drooping attitude.  “What have I done?  I hope you are not angry!”

“No, no, Priscilla!” said Hollingsworth, smiling.  “I will answer for it, she is not.  You are the one little person in the world with whom nobody can be angry!”

“Angry with you, child?  What a silly idea!” exclaimed Zenobia, laughing.  “No, indeed!  But, my dear Priscilla, you are getting to be so very pretty that you absolutely need a duenna; and, as I am older than you, and have had my own little experience of life, and think myself exceedingly sage, I intend to fill the place of a maiden aunt.  Every day, I shall give you a lecture, a quarter of an hour in length, on the morals, manners, and proprieties of social life.  When our pastoral shall be quite played out, Priscilla, my worldly wisdom may stand you in good stead.”

“I am afraid you are angry with me!” repeated Priscilla sadly; for, while she seemed as impressible as wax, the girl often showed a persistency in her own ideas as stubborn as it was gentle.

“Dear me, what can I say to the child!” cried Zenobia in a tone of humorous vexation.  “Well, well; since you insist on my being angry, come to my room this moment, and let me beat you!”

Zenobia bade Hollingsworth good-night very sweetly, and nodded to me with a smile.  But, just as she turned aside with Priscilla into the dimness of the porch, I caught another glance at her countenance.  It would have made the fortune of a tragic actress, could she have borrowed it for the moment when she fumbles in her bosom for the concealed dagger, or the exceedingly sharp bodkin, or mingles the ratsbane in her lover’s bowl of wine or her rival’s cup of tea.  Not that I in the least anticipated any such catastrophe,—­it being a remarkable truth that custom has in no one point a greater sway than over our modes of wreaking our wild passions.  And besides, had we been in Italy, instead of New England, it was hardly yet a crisis for the dagger or the bowl.