may be less heroines, but they are more women. There is not a more delightful temper in the daily relations of life than this sweet gaiety—it brings its own sunshine—"making that beautiful which was not so," relieving the monotonous, and inspiring the sad. A gay temper is like a bright day; true, it may have its faults—a little petulance, a little wilfulness—the flush may be too ready in the cheek, and the flash too prompt in the eye; still these are only trifles to be pardoned, and we like that all the better in which we have something to forgive. The Lady Fleming says of Catherine, "Heaven pity him who shall have, one day, a creature so beautiful to delight him, and a thing so mischievous to torment him." He would be very well off—the meteor light would be softened and subdued when it came to burn on one only hearth. The light step, though more measured, would shed music through the house; and, somewhat sobered by time, and touched by grief, which is knowledge, the riper years of Catherine Seyton would be of those that show
"how divine a thing,
A woman may be made."
