will give to those who know it a better idea of what Angela was like
than any written description.

At times, but, ah, how rarely! we may have seen some such look as that
she wore on the faces of those around us. It may be brought by a great
sorrow, or be the companion of an overwhelming joy. It may announce
the consummation of some sublime self-sacrifice, or convey the swift
assurance of an everlasting love. It is to be found alike on the
features of the happy mother as she kisses her new-born babe, and on
the pallid countenance of the saint sinking to his rest. The sharp
moment that brings us nearer God, and goes nigh to piercing the veil
that hides His presence, is the occasion that calls it into being. It
is a beauty born of the murmuring sound of the harps of heaven; it is
the light of the eternal lamp gleaming faintly through its earthly
casket.

This spirit-look, before which all wickedness must feel ashamed, had
found a home in Angela's grey eyes. There was a strange nobility about
her. Whether it dwelt in the stately form, or on the broad brow, or in
the large glance of the deep eyes, it is not possible to say; but it
was certainly a part of herself as self-evident as her face or
features. She might well have been the inspiration of the lines that
run:


"Truth in her might, beloved,
Grand in her sway;
Truth with her eyes, beloved,
Clearer than day;
Holy and pure, beloved,