on the side of black, divided in the middle, and gathered behind in a
great mass. Her dress was something white, with a shimmer of red about
it, and a blush-rose in the front. She greeted Walter in the simplest,
friendliest way, holding out her tiny hand very frankly. Her features
were no smaller than for her size they ought to be, in themselves
perfect, \Walter thought, and in harmony with her whole being and
carriage. Her manner was a gentle, unassuming assurance--almost as if
they knew each other, but had not met for some time. Walter felt some
ancient primeval bond between them--dim, but indubitable.

The mother withdrew to her writing-table, and began to write, now and
then throwing in a word as they talked. Lady Lufa seemed pleased with
her new acquaintance; Walter was bewitched. Bewitchment I take to be the
approach of the real to our ideal. Perhaps upon that, however, depends
even the comforting or the restful. In the heart of every one lies the
necessity for homeliest intercourse with the perfectly lovely; we are
made for it. Yet so far are we in ourselves from the ideal, which no man
can come near until absolutely devoted to its quest, that we continually
take that for sufficing which is a little beyond.

"I think, Mr. Colman, I have seen something of yours! You do put your
name to what you write?" said Lady Lufa.

"Not always," replied Walter.

"I think the song must have been yours!"

Walter had, just then, for the first time published a thing of his own.
That it should have arrested the eye of this lovely creature! He
acknowledged that he had printed a trifle in "The Observatory."