brow, and, to add to this confusion of the classical and the pastoral orders, instead of the crescent of Diana in the model, she had bound her braid with blue glass beads.
"Who is that? who is that?" was whispered from one to another.
"The rich widow Wilson's daughter," the strangers were answered.
Mrs. Wilson, whose maternal pride (for maternal tenderness she had not) was swollen by the consciousness of triumph over Jane, nodded and whispered to all within her hearing, "My daughter, sir"—"my daughter, ma'am; you see, by the bill, the prize composition is to be spoken by the writer of it."
Elvira rose and advanced. She had requested that she might speak instead of reading her piece, and she spouted it with all the airs and graces of a sentimentalist of the beau monde. When she dropped her courtesy, and returned to her companions, her usually high colour was heightened by the pride of success and the pleasure of display. Some were heard to say, "She is a beauty;" while others shook their heads, and observed, "The young lady must have great talents to write such a piece, but she looked too bold to please them."
Before the busy hum of comment had died away, an old man, with a bald head, a keen eye, and a very good-humoured face, rose and said "he would make bold to speak a word; bashfulness was suitable to youth, but was not necessary
