completely as Lancelot himself.

That face and figure, and the spirit which spoke through them,
entered his heart at once, never again to leave it. Her features
were aquiline and grand, without a shade of harshness; her eyes
shone out like twain lakes of still azure, beneath a broad marble
cliff of polished forehead; her rich chestnut hair rippled downward
round the towering neck. With her perfect masque and queenly
figure, and earnest, upward gaze, she might have been the very model
from which Raphael conceived his glorious St. Catherine--the ideal
of the highest womanly genius, softened into self-forgetfulness by
girlish devotion. She was simply, almost coarsely dressed; but a
glance told him that she was a lady, by the courtesy of man as well
as by the will of God.

They gazed one moment more at each other--but what is time to
spirits? With them, as with their Father, 'one day is as a thousand
years.' But that eye-wedlock was cut short the next instant by the
decided interference of the horse, who, thoroughly disgusted at his
master's whole conduct, gave a significant shake of his head, and
shamming frightened (as both women and horses will do when only
cross), commenced a war-dance, which drove Argemone Lavington into
the porch, and gave the bewildered Lancelot an excuse for dashing
madly up the hill after his companions.

'What a horrible ugly face!' said Argemone to herself, 'but so
clever, and so unhappy!'

Blest pity! true mother of that graceless scamp, young Love, who is
ashamed of his real pedigree, and swears to this day that he is the