tless," said Gerald, as he finished
the perusal of this letter, "she will only render herself discontented
and conspicuous by this wild, idle desire for superiority."

I felt somewhat provoked at his querulous words, for in my partial
eyes Theresa seldom erred, and I knew this solicitude for mental
progress, though as yet vague and undirected, was inseparable from her
active and energetic intellect. But Gerald's opinions were common ones
with his sex, and he coldly censured when away from their attractions,
the very traits of character which, when present, involuntarily
fascinated his imagination. And this is an ingratitude which almost
inevitably falls to the share of a gifted woman. Unfortunately, genius
does not shield its possessor from defects of character; and her very
superiority in raising her above the level of the many, renders her
failings more evident, and those who are forced mentally to admire,
are frequently the first morally to condemn. The following are
extracts from Theresa's letters, written at various intervals during
the first year of her residence at the convent; and they will perhaps
serve to reveal something of the rapid development of her mind, with
the self-forgetfulness and ambition so peculiarly blended in her
nature. She is the only one I have ever seen who possessed extreme
enthusiasm without selfishness, and the strong desire to excel,
without envy. There was a harmony in her being as rare as it was
winning; and while many instances of her childish generosity and
spontaneous disinterestedness rise on my memory, I feel almost
bitterness at the recollection of how unworthily her pure heart was
appreciated, and how sad was the recompense of all she suffered.

"I am happy, my kind friend, happier than I believed it possible for
me to be, when away from those I love. But I study incessantly, and in
acquiring and hoping, I have no time left for regret. When I recall
you, it is not repiningly, but with a thousand desires for your
approval, and increased anxiety to become all you can wish. You will,
perhaps, consider this vanity; but, indeed, that would be unjust, for
it is in all humility, with a painful consciousness of my own
deficiencies that I strive so eagerly to grow wiser and better. Surely
it is not vanity, to yearn to merit tenderness! . . . . . You ask if I
have made any new friends. No; and I can scarcely tell why. There are
several here whose appearance has interested me--and you kno