ver sentimentalized with
gentlemen, and she was called cold and matter-of-fact, by those who
judged her alone by her manner; but one glance in her soft, dove-like
eyes, it seems to me, should have set them a doubting. I have seen
those expressive eyes well up with tears when together we would read
some old story or poem--

"Two shall be named preeminently dear--
The gentle Lady married to the Moor,
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb"--

or leaning from our bed-room window, at midnight, we would gaze on the
silvery moon in the heavens, listening to the rippling notes of the
water-spirits that to our fancy inhabited the sparkling stream that
ran near the house. How beautifully would she improvise at times--for
improvisations in truth were they, while she was quite unconscious of
her gift. She never wrote a line of poetry, but when in such moods,
every word she uttered was true, pure poetry. She had a most
remarkable memory, and seemed never to forget a line she read. To me
she would repeat page after page of our favorite authors, when we
would be wandering through the woods, our arms entwined around each
other.

Effie Morris was an enthusiastic dreamer, and entertained certain
little romantic exaggerated opinions, out of which it was impossible
to argue her--sometimes her actions ran contrary to these opinions,
and we would fancy that surely now she would admit the fallacy of her
arguments in favor of them; but when taxed with it, she would in the
most earnest, sincere manner defend her original position, proving to
us that no matter how her actions appeared to others, they were in her
own mind entirely in keeping with these first expressed opinions,
which to us seemed entirely at variance. But she was so gentle in
argument, and proved so plainly that though her reasoning might be
false, her thoughts were so beautiful and pure, as to make us feel
perfectly willing to pardon her obstinacy.

On the morning I speak of, we lounged languidly over the
breakfast-table, not caring to taste of the tempting crisp rolls, or
drink of the fragrant Mocha juice, the delicious fumes of which rose
up from the delicate China cups all unheeded by us. At first we talked
listlessly of various things, wandering from subject to subject, and
at last, to our surprise, we found ourselves engaged in a sprightly,
animated argument; each forgetting the close atmosphere that seemed at
first to weigh down all vivacity. The subj