48 THE SMUGGLER. 



more lovely than the line of the brow and the chiselled cutting 

 of the nose. The upper lip, small and delicately drawn, the 

 under lip full and slightly apart, showing the pearl-like teeth 

 beneath; the turn of the ear, and the graceful line in the 

 throat, might all have served as models for the sculptor or 

 the painter ; for the colouring was as rich and beautiful as the 

 form; and when she rose and stood to receive him, with the 

 small hand leaning gently on the arm of the chair, he thought 

 he had never seen anything more graceful than the figure, or 

 more harmonious than its calm dignity, with the lofty gravity 

 of her countenance. If there was a defect in the face, it was 

 perhaps that the chin was a little too prominent, but yet it 

 suited well with the whole countenance and with its expres- 

 sion, giving it decision without harshness, and a look of firm- 

 ness, which the bright smile that fluttered for a moment round 

 the lips, deprived of everything that was not gentle and kind. 

 There was soul, there was thought, there was feeling, in the 

 whole look; and Digby would fain have paused to see those 

 features animated in conversation. But her father led him on, 

 after a single word of introduction, to present him to his 

 younger daughter, who, with some points of resemblance, 

 offered a strange contrast to her sister. She, too, was very 

 handsome, and apparently about two years younger ; but hers 

 was the style of beauty which, though it deserves a better 

 name, is generally termed pretty. All the features were good, 

 and the hair exceedingly beautiful; but the face was not so 

 oval, the nose perhaps a little too short, and the lips too 

 sparkling with smiles to impress the mind, at first sight, so 

 much as the countenance of the other. She seemed all hap- 

 piness; and in looking to the expression and at her bright 

 blue eyes, as they looked out through the black lashes, like 

 violets from a clump of dark leaves, it was scarcely possible 

 to fancy that she had ever known a touch of care or sorrow, 

 or that one of the anxieties of life had ever even brushed her 

 lightly with its wing. She seemed the flower just opening to 

 the morning sunshine ; the fruit, before the bloom had been 

 washed away by one shower. Her figure, too, was full of 

 young grace; her movements were all quicker, more wild and 

 ifree than her sister's ; and as she rose to receive Sir Edward 

 Digby, it was more with the air of an old friend than a new 

 acquaintance. Indeed, she was the first of the family who 



