mit, and presently recession. In the rounded, exquisite lines
of her figure there was the promise of that ineffable fullness and
delicacy of womanhood which all the world raves about and destroys and
mourns. It is not fulfilled always in the most beautiful, and perhaps
never except to the woman who loves passionately, and believes she is
loved with a devotion that exalts her body and soul above every other
human being.

It is certain that Margaret's beauty was not classic. Her features were
irregular even to piquancy. The chin had strength; the mouth was
sensitive and not too small; the shapely nose with thin nostrils had an
assertive quality that contradicted the impression of humility in the
eyes when downcast; the large gray eyes were uncommonly soft and clear,
an appearance of alternate tenderness and brilliancy as they were veiled
or uncovered by the long lashes. They were gently commanding eyes, and no
doubt her most effective point. Her abundant hair, brown with a touch of
red in it in some lights, fell over her broad forehead in the fashion of
the time. She had a way of carrying her head, of throwing it back at
times, that was not exactly imperious, and conveyed the impression of
spirit rather than of mere vivacity. These details seem to me all
inadequate and misleading, for the attraction of the face that made it
interesting is still undefined. I hesitate to say that there was a dimple
near the corner of her mouth that revealed itself when she smiled lest
this shall seem mere prettiness, but it may have been the keynote of her
face. I only knew there was something about it that won the heart, as a
too conscious or assertive beauty never does. She may have been plain,
and I may have seen the loveliness of her nature, which I knew well, in
features that gave less sign of it to strangers. Yet I noticed that Mr.
Lyon gave her a quick second glance, and his manner was instantly that of
deference, or at least attention, which he had shown to no other lady in
the room. And the whimsical idea came into my mind--we are all so warped
by international possibilities--to observe whether she did not walk like
a countess (that is, as a countess ought to walk) as she advanced to
shake hands with my wife. It is so easy to turn life into a comedy!

Margaret's great-grandmother--no, it was her great-great-grandmother, but
we have kept the Revolutionary period so warm lately that it seems
near--was a Newport belle, who married an