benevolence, and an innocent desire to be agreeable.

Ireneus took pleasure in looking at her, and as she immediately acquired
self-possession, she conferred the same privilege on others. She already
jested with him as if he had been an old friend, and he felt himself
as unconstrained as if he had passed his whole life with her. When,
however, he looked at Ebba, it was with strange emotion. Nothing in his
whole life had ever touched him so. The countenance of the young girl
had a cold marble whiteness, making it assume the appearance of a statue,
wrought in the most artistic manner.

Two long tresses of yellow hair fell over her cheeks, and disclosed a
brow of ideal serenity. Her pale face was lit up with eyes clear as
crystal, and blue and deep as lakes reflecting the skies. Any one who had
once looked into her eyes could not forget them. Often they drooped
beneath the lids, like a heart overcome with grief sheltering itself
beneath a cloud. When they were lifted up no earthly desire animated
them, and in their vague radiation they seemed to look into the infinite.

There are plants which the dew and sun do not completely develop. There
are beings like weak plants, attached to earth by but feeble roots, and
who from their very birth seem predestined to misfortune, and who, by
a kind of second-sight, made aware of the fate which awaits them, attach
themselves with fear and trembling to a world in which they anticipate
only an ephemeral existence and cruel deception. Their sadness is
reflected on those who approach them. There is as it were a fatal circle
around them, in which all feel themselves seized with indescribable fear,
and with the evidences of sympathy entertained for them is mingled a kind
of commiseration.

Ireneus experienced at the appearance of Ebba this sentiment of
uneasiness and melancholy sympathy. When after supper he bade adieu to
his uncle and cousins, when he was alone in his room, he smiled when he
remembered the amiable gayety of Alete, but became sad and pensive when
he recalled the dreamy look of her young sister, the sad melancholy
glance which shone over her face like the twilight of an autumn day.

Ireneus was not however one of those sentimental beings belonging to the
Byronic or German school. His mind was rather energetic than tender; it
was rather ardent than despairing. The son of a brave country gentleman
who had devoted fortune and life to the cause of legitimacy, and after
havi