before sitting to be portrayed. The abundant hair was parted simply
and smoothly from her forehead and tightly plaited behind; she wore
a linen collar, and, so far as could be judged from the portion
included in the picture, a homely cloth gown. Her features were
comely and intelligent, and exhibited a gentleness, almost a
meekness of expression which was as far as possible from seeming
affected. Whether she smiled or looked sad Hilliard had striven
vainly to determine. Her lips appeared to smile, but in so slight a
degree that perchance it was merely an effect of natural line;
whereas, if the mouth were concealed, a profound melancholy at once
ruled the visage.

Who she was Hilliard had no idea. More than once he had been on the
point of asking his landlady, but characteristic delicacies
restrained him: he feared Mrs. Brewer's mental comment, and dreaded
the possible disclosure that he had admired a housemaid or someone
of yet lower condition. Nor could he trust his judgment of the face:
perhaps it shone only by contrast with so much ugliness on either
side of it; perhaps, in the starved condition of his senses, he was
ready to find perfection in any female countenance not frankly
repulsive.

Yet, no; it was a beautiful face. Beautiful, at all events, in the
sense of being deeply interesting, in the strength of its appeal to
his emotions. Another man might pass it slightingly; to him it spoke
as no other face had ever spoken. It awakened in him a consciousness
of profound sympathy.

While he still sat at table his landlady came in. She was a worthy
woman of her class, not given to vulgar gossip. Her purpose in