hands in his pockets, turned on his heel, and walked to the window, where he stood looking out, though he could see nothing.
"Do you think she's pretty?" I inquired, at length.
"I don't know. I've seen nobody like her," he replied, after a pause. Then he came away from the window, and sat down and patted the collie until the ladies reappeared. So far as I remember, nothing of importance occurred during that evening.
I am of John's way of thinking: I have seen nobody like her. But I have no doubt about her good looks. She is a beautiful girl. She has beauty of expression and movement, as well as of form, feature, and color. But it is an unusual type. She is as dark as a Spaniard, with abundance of black hair, not shiny, but soft and lustreless, like black smoke condensed. Her skin is a pale transparent brown, looking like antique ivory at night, and almost golden when the sun falls on it. Her eyebrows and eyelashes are black, but her eyes are blue,—a warm blue, like spring violets. The blood shows through her cheeks more than with Spanish women.
Her nose is a rather small, delicately-moulded aquiline. Mother has a handsome nose, but it seems coarse in comparison with this. It gives an exquisitely aristocratic effect to her face; and yet it is not such a nose as members of the English aristocracy are apt to have. It seems to indicate refinement of soul and noble spirit, rather than mere high breeding and blue blood. Her countenance has the charm of originality,—as if she were the first of her kind, rather than the last of somebody else's. I never saw my uncle Edward, but he must have been an extraordinary Englishman if his daughter resembles him. She must take after her mother, if any one; and yet, according to mother, Uncle Edward's wife was an invalid, and rather plain. No doubt there is a great deal of exaggeration and humbug in the theory of heredity.
As I have already intimated, John would unquestionably marry Sinfire if she would have him. But neither he nor I nor mother can tell for certain whether she will have him. All the circumstances render it probable; but you can no more look into this girl's heart than you can look into a polished steel breast-plate. Yet there must be some method of reading her, and I shall discover it in time. She is probably romantic. I came into mother's boudoir the other morning; mother was not there, but Sinfire was standing in front of Henry's portrait, which hangs on the wall, rapt in contemplation of it. Henry is a very good-looking fellow. The portrait scarcely does him justice, and I said as much, when she became aware of my presence.
"There are some people," replied Sinfire, "whose portraits I prefer to themselves."
