As the tones of his voice floated through the room, I was where I saw the white sea-birds flashing between the blue deeps of our summer sea and sky, and the dark rocks that rose and dipped in the murmuring waves.

CHAPTER XXIX.

One pleasant afternoon Adelaide and I started on a walk.  We must go through the crooked length of Norfolk Street, till we reached the outskirts of Belem, and its low fields not yet green; that was the fashionable promenade, she said.  After the two o’clock dinner, Belem walked.  All her acquaintances seemed to be in the street, so many bows were given and returned with ceremony.  Nothing familiar was attempted, nothing beyond the courtliness of an artificial smile.

Returning, we met Desmond with a lady, and a series of bows took place.  Desmond held his hat in his hand till we had passed; his expression varied so much from what it was when I saw him last, at the breakfast table, he being in a desperate humor then, that it served me for mental comment for some minutes.

“That is Miss Brewster,” said Adelaide.  “She is an heiress, and fancies Desmond’s attentions:  she will not marry him, though.”

“Is every woman in Belem an heiress?”

“Those we talk about are, and every man is a fortune-hunter.  Money marries money; those who have none do not marry.  Those who wait hope.  But the great fortunes of Belem are divided; the race of millionaires is decaying.”

“Is that Ann yonder?”

“I think so, from that bent bonnet.”

It proved to be Ann, who went by us with the universal bow and grimace, sacrificing to the public spirit with her fine manners.  She turned soon, however, and overtook us, proposing to make a detour to Drummond Street, where an intimate family friend, “Old Hepburn,” lived, so that the prospect of our going to tea with her might be made probable by her catching a passing glimpse of us; at this time she must be at the window with her Voltaire, or her Rousseau.  The proposition was accepted, and we soon came near the house, which stood behind a row of large trees, and looked very dismal, with three-fourths of its windows barred with board shutters.

“Walk slow,” Ann entreated.  “I see her blinking at us.  She has not shed her satin pelisse yet.”

Before we got beyond it a dirty little girl came out of the gate, in a pair of huge shoes and a canvas apron, which covered her, to call us back.  Mrs. Hepburn had seen us, and wished us to come in, wanting to know who Miss Adelaide had with her, and to talk with her.  She ran back, reappearing again at the door, out of breath, and minus a shoe.  As we entered a small parlor, an old lady in a black dress, with a deep cape, held out her withered hand, without rising from her straight-backed arm-chair, smiling at us, but shaking her head furiously at the small girl, who lingered in the door.