anger had vanished in sympathy, and they stood for a few moments in agitated silence, which was broken by Lord Norbourne.
"I know that you are now in love: but what is love?—a young man's feverish dream, whose realities, on awakening, he would give worlds to recall. I loved once—foolishly, madly; for I sacrificed every thing to my boyish passion. I married one without fortune or connexion; for her sake I gave up all those higher schemes on which my hopes had fed from very childhood. For her sake I was content to endure poverty, and—far worse—obscurity. Do you wish to see the face which made me—a fool?"
He stepped forward, and touched the spring of a picture-case, which Norboume had not before seen opened. He almost started at the dazzling loveliness of the countenance on which he gazed. The large black eyes flashed, as if they realised the old poet's description:—
"Such eyes on Jove had thrown
A lightning, fierce and sudden as his own."
The colour on the cheek was rich and elo-
