Romeo.—What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder Knight? Servant.— I know not, sir. Romeo.—O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night, Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear: Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! Shakspeare. So the winter passed on. Christmas might remind the orphans of a custom which prevailed in the Cornwall of old times, and which may possibly still survive in some localities, when the family of each homestead bore a bowl of cider in jocund procession to their orchard, and, selecting the most respectable apple-tree, splashed his trunk with the bright liquor, and wished Christmas passed, and the new year was destined to introduce Helen to another order of singing. Thirty years ago the London season began earlier than at present. January was not over, when a note from Mrs. Winter invited the brother and sister to accompany her to the opera. A vague excitement rose in Helen's breast, and sparkled in her eyes, as she gave the note to Randolph. She felt that she should like to go, but a certain shyness made her timid. She watched her brother's face while he glanced over the invitation, and saw with some regret that he did not par On the appointed evening the lawyer's carriage called for the orphans, and they joined him and his wife. It was a gloomy ride. The night was foggy and dark. The mist condensed on the windows, and permitted nothing to be seen but the general glare of the lamps. This sort of isolation, and the continuous rumble of the carriage, suited Randolph's mood. He was haunted by forebodings of evil. He was angry with himself for accepting the invitation. He felt an indefinite fear of the crowd with which he was about to mingle. It was not as Morton that he ought to appear in public. Yet should his selfish pride debar Helen of the offered amusement? He leant back in his corner of the carriage, abstracted and silent. His sister on the other hand was gay A few minutes more, and she stood in the front of a box, and gazed on a vast area, dimly lighted by a circle of small lustres immediately beneath her, and an immense chandelier far above. They were "Ah! wait a moment," said that lady. And in fact, even as she spoke, a row of bright lamps rose in front of the curtain, and a flood of splendour from the central chandelier irradiated the whole house, displaying the occupants of the boxes, as portraits set in frames of rich crimson. A rustle of conversation murmured from the pit, but was soon lost in the confused sounds which came from the orchestra, now rapidly filling. With a wild kind of surprise Helen listened to those discordant tones, and noted how by degrees they melted into harmony with the leader's long-drawn note. At length there was silence; a gentleman with a small wand took his place at a desk in The foot-lights sank, and the great green curtain rose. The stage was nearly dark. A droll-looking personage came stealthily forward, bowing in acknowledgment of the applause, or of the laughter, which greeted his appearance. Helen laughed, without knowing why. She had a book, but she was too much absorbed to consult it, and kept her eyes fixed on the stage. The droll-looking man sang a whimsical complaint, and retreated from approaching footsteps. There was a struggle between a gentleman and a lady, interrupted by an old man in a night-cap. The old man was killed. There was passionate lamentation over his body. There were scenes, of which The duet was repeated with nearly the same effect. And for the novices, for Randolph as well as Helen, this was the great stage sensation of the night. Other portions of the opera, Zerlina's touching remonstrance with her jealous lover, the prayer, the whirlwind of passion in which the first act terminates, the semi-grotesque marvels of the second with their wonderful music, all excited more or less emotion; but none so fresh and absorbing as that And a particular circumstance distracted Randolph's attention during the second act. In the interval which followed the first, Mrs. Winter called her young friends' notice to the house, then very well filled, instructed them in its technicalities, and pointed out a few notable personages among the audience, whom she happened to know by sight. While in this manner she was directing Randolph's eye along the tier of boxes level with her own, his regard fell upon a young lady of so remarkable an aspect, that after mechanically following Mrs. Winter's instruction, he turned hastily to look once more at his fair neighbour. Never in his life, he thought, had he seen so attractive an object. She was evidently engaged in an animated conversation with some one in the back of the box whom he could not see. Playfulness sparkled in her From that time, Randolph's attention was almost entirely engrossed by his fascinating neighbour. He missed the statue's nod, and lost his share of the laugh at Naldi's comic terror. His sister observed the cause of his abstraction, and looked in "Surely," Helen exclaimed, "I have seen that face before! Yet how can it be?" Randolph knew right well, but he was silent. "Do you know those ladies, Mrs. Winter?" Helen asked. "No, Miss Morton. It is really a beautiful girl." "Beautiful!" Randolph thought; "beautiful! Ay, she is more than beautiful." And the presentiment he had felt before came gloomily back upon his heart. But the fair stranger was not the only damsel who attracted admiration in the opera-house that night. "Who is that, Melcomb?" asked a portly, good-humoured personage, leaning on the rail of the orchestra, and looking "The girl with the bird of paradise in her hair?" answered Melcomb. "Fie! Winesour. Have you forgotten Cressy?—Though, to be sure, the gentle Cressida may have a new face to-night, or any night." "Pooh! you know who I mean," Winesour persisted; "in the tier below." "The pallid thing in black?" said Melcomb. "It's in a state of willowhood. You see through a glass of Chambertin." "May I never drink another," cried Winesour, with a quaint twinkle of his small grey eye, "if she ever saw an opera before. Think you I have no eyes? Vorrei e non vorrei. She followed Fodor's notes with her lips apart, and tears in her eyes. She cried, Melcomb." "Winesour turned enthusiastic for a pale-cheeked girl!" said Melcomb. "What But while he chose to speak of Helen's appearance in these disparaging terms, Melcomb had really observed her with admiration, and determined to ascertain who she might be. He was one of those handsome, careless, profligate fellows, who are too well regarded by the men, and too easily pardoned by the women. One murder, it has been rather absurdly said, makes a villain; ten thousand, a hero. But it may with some truth be remarked, that the number of hearts a Melcomb breaks rather adds to his fame than diminishes his reputation. He rises upon ruin. Melcomb, however, was at last positively thinking of marriage, and had become the slave professed of Mildred Pendarrel. But he sped not in his wooing as he conceived he had a right to expect. Now, it is an annoying thing for one accustomed to "Can you tell me," she asked, "who those ladies are, Mr. Melcomb? You know everybody." "My knowledge is at fault," he answered. "Shall I inquire?" "I should like to know," Mrs. Pendarrel continued; "but they are going, and so shall I." Mrs. Winter's party, unconscious of the interest they excited, were waiting, clustered together, for the announcement of their carriage, when Mrs. Pendarrel's was declared to stop the way. At the sound of the name, Randolph and Helen involuntarily turned, and found themselves face to face with the lady who had before attracted their observation. She swept haughtily past them, without seeming to be aware of their surprise, and was followed by Mildred, leaning on the arm of Melcomb. "It was the miniature," Helen whispered to her brother, who had become suddenly pale. In a few moments Melcomb returned to the crush room, and observed the strangers with a well-bred stare. Randolph frowned, and the coxcomb smiled. Mrs. Winter's carriage was called. Melcomb noted the name, and learnt the destination. For the present it was enough. The beau had |