ng to her which could have been chosen. She was perfectly natural,
and, though shy and reserved among strangers, had a quiet, easy grace of
manner, that showed at once deference for them and utter unconsciousness
of self. Her head was very fine and admirably poised. She had a
symmetrical figure, and her step to the last was as light and elastic as
a girl's.

When I first knew her, in the flush and bloom of young maternity, her
face scarcely differed in its curving outlines from what it was more
than a quarter of a century later, when the joys and sorrows of
full-orbed womanhood had stamped upon it indelible marks of the
perfection they had wrought. Her hair was then a dark-brown; her
forehead smooth and fair, her general complexion rich without much depth
of color except upon the lips. In silvering her clustering locks time
only added to her aspect a graver charm, and harmonised the still more
delicate tints of cheek and brow. Her eyes were black, and at times
wonderfully bright and full of spiritual power; but they were shaded
by deep, smooth lids which gave them when at rest a most dove-like
serenity. Her other features were equally striking; the lips and chin
exquisitely moulded and marked by great strength as well as beauty. Her
face, in repose, wore the habitual expression of deep thought and a soft
earnestness, like a thin veil of sadness, which I never saw in the same
degree in any other. Yet when animated by interchange of thought and
feeling with congenial minds, it lighted up with a perfect radiance of
love and intelligence, and a most beaming smile that no pen or pencil
can describe--least of all in my hand, which trembles when I try to
sketch the faintest outline.

Hundreds of heart-stirring memories crowd upon me as I write, but it
is impossible to give them expression. Her books give you the truest
transcript of herself. She wrote, as she talked, from the heart. To
those who knew her, a written page in almost any one of them recalls her
image with the vividness of a portrait; and they can almost hear her
musical voice as they read it themselves. But, alas! in reality--

No more her low sweet accents can we hear
No more our plaints can reach her patient ear.
O! loved and lost, oh! trusted, tried, and true,
O! tender, pitying eyes forever sealed;
How can we bear to speak our last adieu?
How to the grave the precious casket yield,
And to those old familiar places go
That knew thee once, a