entireness. I know not well how to express that the native glow of coloring in her cheeks, and even the flesh-warmth over her round arms, and what was visible of her full bust, — in a word, her womanliness incarnated, — compelled me sometimes to close my eyes, as if it were not quite the privilege of modesty to gaze at her.

Illness and exhaustion, no doubt, had made me morbidly sensitive.

I noticed — and wondered how Zenobia contrived it — that she had always a new flower in her hair. And still it was a hot-house flower, — an outlandish flower, — a flower of the tropics, such as appeared to have sprung passionately out of a soil the very weeds of which would be fervid and spicy. Unlike as was the flower of each successive day to the preceding one, it