The face that looked back at me from the glass was a perfectly happy one, ready to dimple into glad mirth or bright laughter.

No shadow of pain or care remained upon it to remind me of past suffering, and I murmured half aloud: "Thank God!" "Amen!" said a soft voice, and, turning round, I saw Zara.
But how shall I describe her?
No words can adequately paint the glorious beauty in which, that night, she seemed to move as in an atmosphere of her own creating.

She wore a clinging robe of the richest, softest white satin, caught in at the waist by a zone of pearls--pearls which, from their size and purity, must have been priceless.

Her beautiful neck and arms were bare, and twelve rows of pearls were clasped round her slender throat, supporting in their centre the electric stone, which shone with a soft, subdued radiance, like the light of the young moon.

Her rich, dark hair was arranged in its usual fashion--that is, hanging down in one thick plait, which on this occasion was braided in and out with small pearls.