silent and profound
abstraction--for twilight is the time the past claims from the
present, and memory is summoned by silence. Theresa's feet rested on a
low footstool, her hands were clasped lightly together on her lap, and
she leaned back in the cushioned chair, in an attitude of perfect and
unstudied grace she would have delightedly sketched in another. Have
ever I described my favorite's appearance? I believe not; and yet
there was much in her face and figure to arrest and enchant younger
eyes than mine. I could not, if I would, delineate her features, for
I only recall their charm of emotion, their attractive variety of
sentiment. Her eyes were gray, with dark lashes, and their expression
was at once brilliant and melancholy, and the most spiritual I have
ever seen. Her hair was long and fair, with a tinge of gold glancing
through its pale-brown masses, as if sunbeams were woven in its
tresses. She was not above the average height, but the proportions of
her figure were peculiarly beautiful, and her movements and attitudes
had the indescribable gracefulness whose harmony was a portion of her
being. She looked even younger than she really was, and her dress,
though simple, was always tasteful and attractive, for her reverence
for the beautiful extended even to common trifles, and all about her
bespoke the elevating presence of intellectual ascendency. The glance
that once dwelt on her returned to her face instinctively--so much of
thought and feeling, of womanhood in its faculty to love and hope, of
affection in its power to endure and triumph, so much of genius in the
glory of its untested youth, lay written in lines of light on that
pale, maidenly brow. Ah, me! that I should remember her thus! As
Theresa sat there, she idly took a newspaper from the table to refold
it, and as she did so, her own name attracted her attention. It headed
a brief notice of her poems, which was doubtless written by some one
her success had offended--there are minds that cannot forgive a
fortunate rival. It was a cold, sarcastic, sneering review of her
book, penned in that tone of contemptuous irony, the most profaning to
talent, the most desecrating to beauty. There was neither justice nor
gentleness in the paragraph, but it briefly condemned the work, and
promised at some future period, a more detailed notice of its defects.
It was the first time that Theresa had felt the fickleness of popular
favor; and who does not know the morbid se