ft and
humid languor which is never seen in eyes of that color. The rest of
her features were as near as possible to the Grecian model, except
that there was a slight depression where the nose joins the brow,
breaking that perfectly straight line of the classical face, which,
however beautiful to the statue, is less attractive in life than the
irregular outline of the northern countenance.

Her mouth, with the exception of--perhaps I should rather say in
conjunction with--her eyes, was the most lovely and expressive feature
in her face. There were twin dimples at its corners; yet was not its
expression one of habitual mirth, but of tenderness and softness
rather, unmixed, although an anchorite might have been pardoned the
wish to press his lips to its voluptuous curve, with the slightest
expression of sensuality.

Her complexion was, as I have said, dazzlingly brilliant; but it was
the brilliance of the lily rather than of the rose, though at the
least emotion, whether of pain or pleasure, the eloquent blood would
rush, like the morning's glow over some snow-crowned Alp, across
cheek, brow, and neck, and bosom, and vanish thence so rapidly, that
ere you should have time to say, nay, even to think,

"Look! look how beautiful, 't was fled."

Such was the elder beauty, the destined heiress of the ancient house,
the promised mother of a line of sons, who should perpetuate the name
and hand down the principles of the Fitz-Henries to far distant ages.
Such were the musings of her father,

Proh! coeca mens mortalium!

and at such times alone, if ever, a sort of doubtful pride would come
to swell his hope, whispering that for such a creature, no man,
however high or haughty, but would be willing to renounce the pride of
birth, even untempted by the demesnes of Ditton-in-the-Dale, and many
another lordly manor coupled to the time-honored name of Fitz-Henry.

Her sister, Agnes, though not less beautiful than Blanche--and there
were those who insisted that she was more so--was as different from
her, in all but the general resemblance of figure and carriage, as
night is from morning, or autumn from early summer-time.

Her ringlets, not less profuse than Blanche's, and clustering in
closer and more mazy curls, were as black as the raven's wing, and,
like the feathers of the wild bird, were lighted up when the sun
played on them with a sort of purplish and metallic gloss, that defies
alike the pen of the writer, and