house in the woods. We have several pictures on the walls--first a
portrait of my dear uncle; a boyish face with fair hair, deep blue
eyes, and an expression angelic in sweetness. No one would imagine it
to be the face of a married man, but it was painted, mamma says, when
he was thirty years old. Two large and admirable photographs, taken
early last summer, hang opposite it. A striking contrast they are to
the pensive, fragile, blonde boy; these are impressed with the vigor
and mental and physical activity of his busy life, but the broad
intellectual brow, and the almost divine expression that plays about
the mouth, are the same in each.

An engraving from a picture by Paul Delaroche, the Archangel
Gabriel--the "patron," in Catholic parlance, of our little
Gabrielle--hangs between the windows, and over the comfortable sofa is
a copy of Liotard's celebrated pastel "la belle Chocolatière" in the
Dresden Gallery. This copy Aunt Mary bought in that city when there
some years ago, and it is considered wonderfully fine. Very pretty and
coquettish she looks in her picturesque Vienna dress, with the small,
neatly-fitting cap, ample apron, and tiny Louis Quinze shoes. In her
case

"My face is my fortune,"

was exemplified, and so pretty and modest is her demeanor that it is no
wonder that Count Dietrichstein, haughty nobleman though he was,
married her. She is very different, however, from the chocolate
vendors whom I have seen in the streets of Paris. I don't think a
nobleman would ever raise one of them from their original station, for
they are as a rule past fifty, and ugly and withered as only a
Frenchwoman of that age can be.