They were the gift of Mrs.Linwood, who, having won from the grave a portion of my mother's beautiful dark hair, had it wrought with exquisite skill, and set in massy gold, as memorials of love stronger than death.

Thus doubly precious, I cherished them as holy amulets, made sacred by the living as well as the dead.

Edith had woven in my hair some scarlet geraniums, my favorite flower.

Though not very elaborately adorned, I had an impression I was looking my best, and I could not help thinking while I sat half veiled by foliage, half gilded by light, how romantic it would be, if a magnificent stranger should suddenly approach and as suddenly draw back, on seeing my dark, waving hair, instead of the golden locks of Edith.

I became so absorbed in painting this little scene, which enlarged and glowed under the pencil of imagination, that I did not hear the opening of the gate or footsteps crossing the lawn.