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O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft, / And warm and pleasant; but the grave is cold! / Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. / -- MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Stepan Stepanovitch started forward, and caught his daughter in his arms as she fell. He carried her to a couch and hung over her in some alarm. She had fainted quite away. After a minute or two of fruitless effort to rouse her, her father departed in search of Miss Forester; and Felix was left alone in charge. For a while he gazed, with a troubled face, upon the strongly marked brows, the olive complexion, and night-black hair of the young beauty. How different from the girl whose memory he carried with him from England -- the pale, appealing face, in its chestnut halo, the expressive mouth, and eyes of deepest blue.