on, after some hesitation, gratefully consented; and
thus Cecilia, from the age of eight to her present age of nineteen, had
the inestimable advantage of living in constant companionship with a
woman of richly cultivated mind, accustomed to hear the best criticisms
on the best books, and adding to no small accomplishment in literature
the refinement of manners and that sort of prudent judgment which result
from habitual intercourse with an intellectual and gracefully world-wise
circle of society: so that Cecilia herself, without being at all blue or
pedantic, became one of those rare young women with whom a well-educated
man can converse on equal terms; from whom he gains as much as he can
impart to her; while a man who, not caring much about books, is still
gentleman enough to value good breeding, felt a relief in exchanging the
forms of his native language without the shock of hearing that a bishop
was "a swell" or a croquet-party "awfully jolly."

In a word, Cecilia was one of those women whom Heaven forms for man's
helpmate; who, if he were born to rank and wealth, would, as his
partner, reflect on them a new dignity, and add to their enjoyment by
bringing forth their duties; who, not less if the husband she chose were
poor and struggling, would encourage, sustain, and soothe him, take her
own share of his burdens, and temper the bitterness of life with the
all-recompensing sweetness of her smile.

Little, indeed, as yet had she ever thought of love or of lovers. She
had not even formed to herself any of those ideals which float before
the eyes of most girls when they enter their teens. But of two things
she felt inly convinced: first, that she could never wed where she did
not love; and secondly, that where she did love it would be for life.

And now I close this sketch with a picture of the girl herself. She has
just come into her room from inspecting the preparations for the evening
entertainment which her father is to give to his tenants and rural
neighbours.

She has thrown aside her straw hat, and put down the large basket which
she has emptied of flowers. She pauses before the glass, smoothing back
the ruffled bands of her hair,--hair of a dark, soft chestnut, silky
and luxuriant,--never polluted, and never, so long as she lives, to be
polluted by auricomous cosmetics, far from that delicate darkness, every
tint of the colours traditionally dedicated to the locks of Judas.

Her complexion, usually of that