“It matters little to me her not being at home,” said Rosa Dartle haughtily, “I know nothing of her. It is you I come to see.”

“Me?” replied a soft voice.

At the sound of it, a thrill went through my frame. For it was Emily’s!

“Yes,” returned Miss Dartle, “I have come to look at you. What? You are not ashamed of the face that has done so much?”

The resolute and unrelenting hatred of her tone, its cold stern sharpness, and its mastered rage, presented her before me, as if I had seen her standing in the light. I saw the flashing black eyes, and the passion-wasted figure; and I saw the scar, with its white track cutting through her lips, quivering and throbbing as she spoke.