If you love me, do not allude to this subject again. “You are late,” she murmured. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. She was the High Priestess. "Cease your confounded clutter!" said a young man, whose swarthy visage, seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a Mulatto. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. She will cry for days and nights together. She smiled and started for the stairs without reply. The less she lived, in fact, the better. " CHAPTER XV.
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