and the eyes of their charm. She was in every way so noiseless; she
moved with a slow, self-contained gravity that showed itself in her
whole bearing, and struck a certain awe into others. Her diffident
manner had changed to positive shyness, due apparently to a habit now of
some years' growth, of effacing herself in her daughter's presence. She
spoke very seldom, and in the low tones used by those who perforce must
live within themselves a life of reflection and concentration. This
demeanor led others to regard her with an indefinable feeling which was
neither awe nor compassion, but a mysterious blending of the many ideas
awakened in us by compassion and awe. Finally, there was something in
her wrinkles, in the lines of her face, in the look of pain in those
wan eyes of hers, that bore eloquent testimony to tears that never had
fallen, tears that had been absorbed by her heart. Unhappy creatures,
accustomed to raise their eyes to heaven, in mute appeal against the
bitterness of their lot, would have seen at once from her eyes that she
was broken in to the cruel discipline of ceaseless prayer, would have
discerned the almost imperceptible symptoms of the secret bruises which
destroy all the flowers of the soul, even the sentiment of motherhood.

Painters have colors for these portraits, but words, and the mental
images called up by words, fail to reproduce such impressions
faithfully; there are mysterious signs and tokens in the tones of the
coloring and in the look of human faces, which the mind only seizes
through the sense of sight; and the poet is fain to record the tale
of the events which wrought the havoc to make their terrible ravages
understood.

The face spoke of cold and steady storm, an inward conflict between a
mother's long-suffering and the limitations of our nature, for our human
affections are bounded by our humanity, and the infinite has no place
in finite creatures. Sorrow endured in silence had at last produced an
indefinable morbid something in this woman. Doubtless mental anguish had
reacted on the physical frame, and some disease, perhaps an aneurism,
was undermining Julie's life. Deep-seated grief lies to all appearance
very quietly in the depths where it is conceived, yet, so still and
apparently dormant as it is, it ceaselessly corrodes the soul, like the
terrible acid which eats away crystal.

Two tears made their way down the Marquise's cheeks; she rose to her
feet as if some thought more