cent arms round
one's neck, looks up, and lo! Blanche's soft eyes, full of wistful,
compassionate kindness, though she has the tact not to question; it is
enough for her to sorrow with your sorrow,--she cares not to know
more. A strange child,--fearless, and yet seemingly fond of things that
inspire children with fear; fond of tales of fay, sprite, and ghost,
which Mrs. Primmins draws fresh and new from her memory as a conjurer
draws pancakes hot and hot from a hat. And yet so sure is Blanche of
her own innocence that they never trouble her dreams in her lone little
room, full of caliginous corners and nooks, with the winds moaning
round the desolate ruins, and the casements rattling hoarse in the
dungeon-like wall. She would have no dread to walk through the ghostly
keep in the dark, or cross the church-yard what time,--

"By the moon's doubtful and malignant light,"--

the gravestones look so spectral, and the shade from the yew-trees lies
so still on the sward. When the brows of Roland are gloomiest, and the
compression of his lips makes sorrow look sternest, be sure that Blanche
is couched at his feet, waiting the moment when, with some heavy sigh,
the muscles relax, and she is sure of the smile if she climbs to his
knee. It is pretty to chance on her gliding up broken turret-stairs,
or standing hushed in the recess of shattered casements; and you wonder
what thoughts of vague awe and solemn pleasure can be at work under that
still, little brow.

She has a quick comprehension of all that is taught to her; she already
tasks to the full my mother's educational arts. My father has had to
rummage his library for books to feed (or extinguish) her desire
for "further information," and has promised lessons in French and
Italian--at some golden time in the shadowy "By and by"--which are
received so gratefully that one might think Blanche mistook "Telema que"
and "Novelle Morali" for baby-houses and dolls. Heaven send her through
French and Italian with better success than attended Mr. Caxton's
lessons in Greek to Pisistratus! She has an ear for music which my
mother, who is no bad judge, declares to be exquisite. Luckily there is
an old Italian, settled in a town ten miles off, who is said to be
an excellent music-master, and who comes the round of the neighboring
squirearchy twice a week. I have taught her to draw,--an accomplishment
in which I am not without skill,--and she has already taken a sketch
from nature, wh