custom on such occasions. Once, when accompanying Mrs. Woodbourne on
a morning visiting expedition, she had translated the Erl King, which
she knew by heart, into English, far more literal than Sir Walter
Scott's, and with no fault, except that not above half the couplets
professed to rhyme, and most of those that did were deficient in
metre. Another time she had composed three quarters of a story of a
Saxon hero, oppressed by a Norman baron, and going to the Crusades;
and at another time she had sent back the whole party to the times of
Queen Elizabeth, and fancied what they might be saying about the
Spanish Armada. But now, whether because there was too much talking
in the room, or because the Consecration had lately left no room for
the fancies on which she was accustomed to feed, she could find
nothing more sublime to reflect upon than the appearance of her
cousin Anne, who was entertaining the young Miss Maynard, a shy girl,
yet pleased with notice, by a conversation, which, if not very
interesting, saved her from belonging to any of the four agreeable
tribes mentioned at tea-time.

Now, Anne, though she did not posses the tall figure or striking
countenance of her cousins, the Woodbournes, or the brilliant
complexion of her brother, was one of those people who always look
well. She was small and slightly made, and very graceful; and
everything she wore was appropriate and becoming, so that, without
bestowing much thought on the matter, she never looked otherwise than
perfectly well dressed. She was rather pale; her eyes were grey,
with long dark lashes; and her hair brown; her features were well
formed and animated; and though by no means remarkable, everyone
called her nice-looking; some said she was pretty, and a few thought
and felt that her countenance was lovely. So much had lately been
said about dress--about Elizabeth's curls, and Helen's tails, and