ness. Her step, her height—the proud sweep of a neck which was like the swan's for snow and grace—were such as make the artificial distinctions of society seem the inherent aristocracy of nature; you felt she was never meant to breathe aught but "the air of palaces"—you never thought of calling her pretty.
Who is it that says the character of a woman is decided by the cast of her features? All sweeping assertions are erroneous. In this instance, the style of manner was opposed to the style of the features. At the first glance, the imagination likened her to those beautiful queens who followed in the triumph they disdained of the Roman conqueror—as one to whom society was a pageant, in which she must take and yet scorn her part; but this impression passed with the first tone of the lute upon her lips—her sweet and song-like voice. Her exquisite laugh, like the sound of a shell which, instead of the night wind, is filled with the morning sunshine and bursts into music—the fascination of such feminine kindliness—wit so airy, yet so keen, whose acid was not that of vinegar, dissolving all the pearls of gentler feelings, but the acid of champagne, whose pearls dance on the surface and melt into blending
