she turned to the title-page, and looked at the name written in the schoolboy hand. She looked at it long; nor was she satisfied with merely looking: she gently passed over the characters the tips of her fingers, accompanying the action with an unconscious but tender smile, which converted the touch into a caress. Paulina loved the Past; but the peculiarity of this little scene was, that she said nothing: she could feel, without pouring out her feelings in a flux of words.
She now occupied herself at the bookcase for nearly an hour; taking down volume after volume, and renewing her acquaintance with each. This, done, she seated herself on a low stool, rested her cheek on her hand, and thought, and still was mute.
The sound of the front door opened below, a rush of cold wind, and her father's voice speaking to Mrs. Bretton in the hall, startled her at last. She sprang up: she was down-stairs in one second.
"Papa! papa! you are not going out?"
"My pet; I must go into town."
"But it is too—too cold, papa."
And then I heard M. de Bassompierre showing to her how he was well provided against the
