ll, pouting lips. Her eyes, calm, steady, quiet, loving, grey eyes,--
eyes symbolical of faith and constancy, and unswerving fidelity of
purpose: eyes that looked like tranquil depths through which you could
see the soul-light reflected from below; and which only wanted the
stirring power of some great motive or passion to illumine them with a
myriad irradiating gems.

But,--pshaw! How can I describe her? It is sacrilege thus to weigh and
consider the points and merits of one we love. Besides, even the most
perfect and faultlessly-beautiful face in the world would be unable to
stand the test of minute examination in detail. As Thomson sings, to
put his poetry into prose, how can you "from the diamond single out each
ray, when all, though trembling with ten thousand hues, effuse one
dazzling undivided light?"

It is impossible. No words of mine could put before you what her face
really was like, as it appeared to me then and afterwards when I had
learnt to watch and decipher every versatile look and expression it
wore. Sometimes, when in repose, it reminded me of one of Raphael's
angels. At other times, when moved by mirth and with arch glances
dancing in the deep, grey eyes,--and they could make merry when they
willed,--it was a witching, teasing, provoking little face. Or, again,
if changed by grief,--under which aspect, thank God! I seldom saw it,--
a noble, resolute face, bearing that indescribable look of calm, set,
high resolve, which the face of the heart-broken daughter of Lear, or
the deep-suffering mother of the Gracchi might have borne. You may say,
perhaps, that this is rhapsody; but what is love without rhapsody?--
what, a love story?

I determined at first, before I had studied it more attentively, that
her face lacked expression; but I made a grievous error. I quickly
altered my opinion on seeing it in profile and upturned; for I marked
the embodiment of devotion it betrayed during the service, when her
voice was raised in the praise of her Maker. She looked now exactly
like the picture of Saint Cecilia; and her appearance recalled to my
mind what one of the American essayists, I forget who it is, observes
quaintly somewhere, that it is no wonder that Catholics pay their vows
to the queen of heaven, for "the unpoetical side of Protestantism is,
that it has no woman to be worshipped."

Of course I had fallen in love with her,--love at first sight; and,
although you may not credit the assert