"The young Squire is certainly very handsome," said Elinor Wildegrave to
her mother, the morning after their first meeting. "But there is
something about him which I cannot like. His face is as stern and as
cold as a marble statue's. I should think it would be impossible for
that man to shed a tear, or be capable of feeling the least tender
emotion."

"My dear Elinor, you judge too much by externals. These taciturn people
are often possessed of the keenest sensibility."

"Ah! dearest mother, believe it not. 'From the abundance of the heart,
the mouth speaketh.' I love not these silent people. The heart that is
worn on the sleeve is better, and more to be trusted, than the heart
that is concealed in a marble shell."

The human countenance never lies. If read aright, it always presents the
real index of the mind. The first impression it makes upon a stranger is
always the correct one. Pleasing manners and affable smiles may tend to
weaken, nay, even to efface these first impressions, but they will
invariably return, and experience will attest their truth.

In her first estimate of the Squire's character, formed from his
physiognomy, Elinor was correct, for it was some time before she could
reconcile herself to his harsh countenance; but her dislike gradually
wore away, and she received his passing civilities with the pleasure
which a young girl of her age invariably feels, when regarded with
admiration by one so much her superior in rank and fortune.

His retired habits, which at the age of twenty-four his neighbors
attributed more to pride than avarice, though in truth they arose from a