MRS. LANSDOWNE.


P---- is a city by the sea. Built upon an elevated peninsula,
surrounded by a country of manifold resources of beauty and fertility,
with a fine, broad harbor, it sits queenlike in conscious power,
facing with serene aspect the ever-restless waves that wash
continually its feet. The place might be called ancient, if that term
could properly be applied to any of the works of man on New England
shores. There are parts of it, where the architecture of whole streets
looks quaint and time-worn; here and there a few antique churches
appear, but modern structures predominate, and the place is full of
vigorous life and industry.

It was sunset. The sky was suffused with the richest carmine. The
waters lay quivering beneath the palpitating, rosy light. The spires
and domes of the town caught the ethereal hues and the emerald hills
were bathed in the glowing atmosphere.

In a large apartment, in the second story of a tall, brick mansion
on ---- street, sat Mrs. Lansdowne. Susceptible though she was to the
attractions of the scene before her, they did not now occupy her
attention. Her brow was contracted with painful thought, her lip
quivered with deep emotion. The greatest sorrow she had known had
fallen upon her through the error of one whom she fondly loved.

Though enwrapped in a cloud of grief, one could see that she possessed
beauty of a rich and rare type. She had the delicate, aquiline nose,
the dark, lustrous eyes and hair, the finely arched eyebrows of the