it. There is a kind of beauty that seems made to be painted on
ivory, and such was hers. Only the microscopic pencil of a
miniature-painter could portray those slender eyebrows, that
arched caressingly over the beautiful eyes,--or the silky hair
of darkest chestnut that crept in a wavy line along the
temples, as if longing to meet the brows,--or those unequalled
lashes! "Unnecessarily long," Aunt Jane afterwards pronounced
them; while Kate had to admit that they did indeed give Emilia
an overdressed look at breakfast, and that she ought to have a
less showy set to match her morning costume.

But what was most irresistible about Emilia,--that which we all
noticed in this interview, and which haunted us all
thenceforward,--was a certain wild, entangled look she wore, as
of some untamed out-door thing, and a kind of pathetic lost
sweetness in her voice, which made her at once and forever a
heroine of romance with the children. Yet she scarcely seemed
to heed their existence, and only submitted to the kisses of
Hope and Kate as if that were a part of the price of coming
home, and she must pay it.

Had she been alone, there might have been an awkward pause; for
if you expect a cousin, and there alights a butterfly of the
tropics, what hospitality can you offer? But no sense of
embarrassment ever came near Malbone, especially with the
children to swarm over him and claim him for their own.
Moreover, little Helen got in the first remark in the way of
serious conversation.

"Let me tell him something!" said the child. "Philip! that