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white lamps in their hands, lamps that were shaded by globes of ground glass. At the door of an apartment pertaining, as he informed me, to the Princess d’Alberville, the Duke stopped, and shook my hand. “I leave you to make your own way,” he said, pointing to the door. She has never showed any symptoms of violence while under the calm influence of white; but, nevertheless, we shall be at hand, the least sound will bring you assistance,” and he turned away.
    I opened the door without a word, and entered the room, full of curiosity as to what I should see and hear of this mysterious princess. It was a room of vast and magnificent proportions, and, without having beheld such a scene, one can hardly conceive the strange cold look the utter absence of colour gave it. A Turkey carpet that looked like a woven fall of snow; white satin damask on chair, couch, and ottoman; draped satin and snowy lace around the windows, with rod, rings, and bracelets of white enamel. Tables with pedestals of enamel and tops of snowy marble, and paper on the walls of purest white; altogether it was a weird-looking room, and I shook with cold as I entered it.
    The principal object of my curiosity was seated in a deep chair with her side toward me, and I had an opportunity of examining her leisurely, as she neither moved or took the slightest notice of my entrance; most probably she was quite unaware of it. She was the most lovely being I had ever beheld, a fair and perfect piece of statuary one might have thought, so immobile and abstracted, nay, so entirely expressionless were her beautiful features. Her dress was pure white, her hair of a pale golden hue, and her eyes dark as midnight. Her hands rested idly on her lap, her gaze seemed intent on the high white wall that shot up outside the window near her; and in the whole room there was neither book, flower, work, or one single loose article of ornament, nothing but the heavy, white-covered furniture, and the draping curtains. I advanced directly before her and bowed deeply, and then I calmly drew forward a chair and seated myself. As I did so she moved her eyes from the window and rested them on me, but, for all the interest they evinced, I might as well have been the whitewashed wall outside. She was once more returning her eyes to the blank window, when I took her hand and laid my fingers on her blue-veined wrist. The action seemed to arouse her, for she looked keenly into my face, and then she laughed softly.
    â€œOne may guess you are a physician,” she said, in a musical, low voice, and with a slightly foreign accent, that was in my opinion, a great improvement to our harsh language.
    â€œI am,” I replied, with a smile, “your uncle has sent me to see about your health, which alarms him.”
    â€œPoor man!” she said, with a shade of commiseration clouding her beautiful face, “poor uncle!” but I assure you there is nothing the matter with me; nothing but what must be the natural consequence of the life I am leading.”
    â€œWhy do you lead one which you know to be injurious then?” I asked, still keeping my fingers on the pulse, that beat as calmly as a sleeping infant’s, and was not interested by a single throb though a stranger sat beside her.
    â€œHow can I help it?” she asked, calmly meeting my inquisitorial gaze, “do you think a sane person would choose to be imprisoned thus, and to be surrounded by the colour of death ever? Had mine not been a strong mind I would have been mad long ago.”
    â€œMad!” I could not help ejaculating, in a puzzled tone.
    â€œYes, mad,” she replied, “could you live here, month after month, in a hueless atmosphere and with nothing but that to look at,” and she pointed her slender finger toward the white wall, “could you, I ask, and retain your reason?”
    â€œI do not believe I could!” I answered, with sudden vehemence, “then again I