he abundant hair was parted simply and
smoothly from her forehead and tightly plaited behind; she wore a linen
collar, and, so far as could be judged from the portion included in the
picture, a homely cloth gown. Her features were comely and intelligent,
and exhibited a gentleness, almost a meekness of expression which was
as far as possible from seeming affected. Whether she smiled or looked
sad Hilliard had striven vainly to determine. Her lips appeared to
smile, but in so slight a degree that perchance it was merely an effect
of natural line; whereas, if the mouth were concealed, a profound
melancholy at once ruled the visage.

Who she was Hilliard had no idea. More than once he had been on the
point of asking his landlady, but characteristic delicacies restrained
him: he feared Mrs. Brewer's mental comment, and dreaded the possible
disclosure that he had admired a housemaid or someone of yet lower
condition. Nor could he trust his judgment of the face: perhaps it
shone only by contrast with so much ugliness on either side of it;
perhaps, in the starved condition of his senses, he was ready to find
perfection in any female countenance not frankly repulsive.

Yet, no; it was a beautiful face. Beautiful, at all events, in the
sense of being deeply interesting, in the strength of its appeal to his
emotions. Another man might pass it slightingly; to him it spoke as no
other face had ever spoken. It awakened in him a consciousness of
profound sympathy.

While he still sat at table his landlady came in. She was a worthy
woman of her class, not given to vulgar gossip. Her purpose in entering
the room at this moment was to ask Hilliard whether he had a likeness
of himself which he could spare her, as a memento.

"I'm sorry I don't possess such a thing," he answered, laughing,
surprised that the woman should care enough about him to make the
request. "But, talking of photographs, would you tell me who this is?"

The album lay beside him, and a feeling of embarrassment, as he saw
Mrs. Brewer's look rest upon it, impelled him to the decisive question.

"That? Oh! that's a friend of my daughter Martha's--Eve Madeley. I'm
sure I don't wonder at you noticing her. But it doesn't do her justice;
she's better looking than that. It was took better than two years
ago--why, just before you came to me, Mr. Hilliard. She was going
away--to London."

"Eve Madeley." He repeated the name to himself, and liked it.

"She's had a deal