o walk, borne on as she was by her
softly falling crutches. She looked so exceedingly lovely, I wondered
that Richard did not burst forth in expressions of irrepressible
admiration. I was never weary of gazing on her beauty. Even after an
absence of a few hours, it dawned upon me with new lustre, like that of
the rising day. I wondered that any one ever looked at any one else in
her presence. As for myself, I felt annihilated by her dazzling
fairness, as the little star is absorbed by the resplendent moon.

Strange, all beautiful as she was she did not attract, as one would
suppose, the admiration of the other sex. Perhaps there was something
cold and shadowy in the ethereality of her loveliness, a want of
sympathy with man's more earthly, passionate nature. It is very certain,
the beauty which woman most admires often falls coldly on the gaze of
man. Edith had the face of an angel; but hers was not the darkening eye
and changing cheek that "pale passion loves." Did the sons of God come
down to earth, as they did in olden time, to woo the daughters of men,
they might have sought her as their bride. She was not cold, however;
she was not passionless. She had a woman's heart, formed to enshrine an
idol of clay, believing it imperishable as its own love.

Mrs. Linwood gave Richard a cordial greeting. I had an unaccountable
fear that she would not be pleased that he escorted me home so
frequently, though this was the first time he had accompanied me to the
lawn. She urged him to remain and pass the evening, or rather asked him,
for he required no urging. I am sure it must have been a happy one to
him. Edith played upon her harp, which had been newly strung. She seemed
the very personification of one of Ossian's blue-eyed maids, with her
white, rising hands, and long, floating locks.

I was passionately fond of music, and had my talent been early
cultivated I would doubtless have excelled. I cared not much about the
piano, but there was inspiration in the very sight of a harp. In
imagination I was Corinna, improvising the impassioned strains of Italy,
or a Sappho, breathing out my soul, like the dying swan, in strains of
thrilling melody. Edith was a St. Cecilia. Had my hand swept the chords,
the hearts of mortals would have vibrated at the touch; she touched the
divine string, and "called angels down."

When I retired that night and saw the reflection of myself full length,
in the large pier-glass, between the rosy folds