suing her historical inquiries, she did
not often speak upon the subject. Her enthusiasm was too deep and too
concentrated for words. But she was Irish to the heart's core, and had
even retained, one can hardly tell how, the slight accent which in a
sweet-toned female voice is so pretty.

_In_ her appearance, also, there were many of the characteristics of
her countrywomen. The roundness of form and clearness of complexion, the
result of good nurture and pure blood which are often found in those
who have been nursed in an Irish cabin, the abundant wavy hair and the
deep-set grey eye. The face, in spite of some irregularity of feature,
would have been pretty, decidedly pretty, if the owner had been happy;
but the expression was too abstracted, too thoughtful, too melancholy
for childhood or even for youth. She was like a rose shut up in a room,
whose pale blossoms have hardly felt the touch of the glorious sunshine
or the blessed air. A daisy of the field, a common, simple, cheerful
looking daisy, would be pleasanter to gaze upon than the blighted queen
of flowers.

Her figure was, however, decidedly beautiful. Not merely tall, but
pliant, elastic, and graceful in no ordinary degree. She was not
generally remarkable for accomplishment. How could she, in the total
absence of the most powerful, as well as the most amiable motives to
exertion? She had no one to please; no one to watch her progress, to
rejoice in her success, to lament her failure. In many branches of
education she had not advanced beyond mediocrity, but her dancing was
perfection; or rather it would have been so, if to her other graces
she had added the charm of gaiety. But that want, as our French
dancing-master used to observe, was so universal in this country,
that the wonder would have been to see any young lady, whose face in a
cotillion (for it was before the days of quadrilles) did not look as if
she was following a funeral.

Such at thirteen I found Honor O'Callaghan, when I, a damsel some three
years younger, was first placed at Mrs. Sherwood's; such five years
afterwards I left her, when I quitted the school.

Calling there the following spring, accompanied by my good godfather, we
again saw Honor silent and pensive as ever. The old gentleman was much
struck with her figure and her melancholy. "Fine girl that!" observed
he to me; "looks as if she was in love though," added he, putting
his finger to his nose with a knowing nod, as was usual wit