A RUSTIC PAIR.

_By Miss Mitford_.

Few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were
less pretty that Hannah Bint. Short and stunted in her figure, thin
in face, sharp in feature, with a muddled complexion, wild sun-burnt
hair, and eyes, whose very brightness had in them something startling,
over-informed, super-subtle, too clever for her age. At twelve years
old she had quite the air of a little old fairy. Now, at seventeen,
matters are mended. Her complexion has cleared; her countenance, her
figure, has shot up into height and brightness, and a sort of rustic
grace; her bright, acute eye is softened and sweetened by the womanly
wish to please; her hair is trimmed, and curled, and brushed with
exquisite neatness; and her whole dress arranged with that nice
attention to the becoming, the suitable both in form and texture,
which would be called the highest degree of coquetry, if it
did not deserve the better name of propriety. Never was such a
transmogrification beheld. The lass is really pretty, and Ned Miles
has discovered that she is so. There he stands, the rogue, close at
her aide, (for he hath joined her whilst we have been telling her
little story, and the milking is over!)--there he stands--holding her
milk-pail in one hand, and stroking Watch with the other; whilst she
is returning the compliment, by patting Neptune's magnificent head.
There they stand, as much like lovers as may be; he smiling, and she
blushing--he never looking so handsome, nor she so pretty, in all
their lives. There they stand, in blessed forgetfulness of all except
each other--as happy a couple as ever trod the earth. There they
stand, and one would not disturb them for all the milk and butter in
Christendom. I should not wonder if they were fixing the wedding-day.