Hepzibah had now poured out a cup of deliciously fragrant coffee, and

presented it to her guest. As his eyes met hers, he seemed bewildered

and disquieted.

"Is this you, Hepzibah?" he murmured sadly; then, more apart, and

perhaps unconscious that he was overheard, "How changed! how changed!

And is she angry with me? Why does she bend her brow so?"

Poor Hepzibah! It was that wretched scowl which time and her

near-sightedness, and the fret of inward discomfort, had rendered so

habitual that any vehemence of mood invariably evoked it. But at the

indistinct murmur of his words her whole face grew tender, and even


lovely, with sorrowful affection; the harshness of her features

disappeared, as it were, behind the warm and misty glow.

"Angry!" she repeated; "angry with you, Clifford!"

Her tone, as she uttered the exclamation, had a plaintive and really

exquisite melody thrilling through it, yet without subduing a certain

something which an obtuse auditor might still have mistaken for

asperity. It was as if some transcendent musician should draw a

soul-thrilling sweetness out of a cracked instrument, which makes its

physical imperfection heard in the midst of ethereal harmony,--so deep

was the sensibility that found an organ in Hepzibah's voice!

"There is nothing but love here, Clifford," she added,--"nothing but

love! You are at home!"

The guest responded to her tone by a smile, which did not half light up

his face. Feeble as it was, however, and gone in a moment, it had a

charm of wonderful beauty. It was followed by a coarser expression; or

one that had the effect of coarseness on the fine mould and outline of

his countenance, because there was nothing intellectual to temper it.

It was a look of appetite. He ate food with what might almost be

termed voracity; and seemed to forget himself, Hepzibah, the young

girl, and everything else around him, in the sensual enjoyment which

the bountifully spread table afforded. In his natural system, though

high-wrought and delicately refined, a sensibility to the delights of

the palate was probably inherent. It would have been kept in check,

however, and even converted into an accomplishment, and one of the

thousand modes of intellectual culture, had his more ethereal

characteristics retained their vigor. But as it existed now, the

effect was painful and made Phoebe droop her eyes.

In a little while the guest became sensible of the fragrance of the yet

untasted coffee. He quaffed it eagerly. The subtle essence acted on

him like a charmed draught, and caused the opaque substance of his

animal being to grow transparent, or, at least, translucent; so that a

spiritual gleam was transmitted through it, with a clearer lustre than


"More, more!" he cried, with nervous haste in his utterance, as if

anxious to retain his grasp of what sought to escape him. "This is

what I need! Give me more!"