y the
fire-place, standing as if waiting our entrance, appeared a lady;
she was young, tall, and well shaped; her dress was handsome and
fashionable: so much my first glance sufficed to ascertain. A gay
salutation passed between her and Mr. Crimsworth; she chid him, half
playfully, half poutingly, for being late; her voice (I always take
voices into the account in judging of character) was lively--it
indicated, I thought, good animal spirits. Mr. Crimsworth soon checked
her animated scolding with a kiss--a kiss that still told of the
bridegroom (they had not yet been married a year); she took her seat
at the supper-table in first-rate spirits. Perceiving me, she begged
my pardon for not noticing me before, and then shook hands with me, as
ladies do when a flow of good-humour disposes them to be cheerful to
all, even the most indifferent of their acquaintance. It was now further
obvious to me that she had a good complexion, and features sufficiently
marked but agreeable; her hair was red--quite red. She and Edward
talked much, always in a vein of playful contention; she was vexed, or
pretended to be vexed, that he had that day driven a vicious horse in
the gig, and he made light of her fears. Sometimes she appealed to me.

"'Now, Mr. William, isn't it absurd in Edward to talk so? He says he
will drive Jack, and no other horse, and the brute has thrown him twice
already.

"She spoke with a kind of lisp, not disagreeable, but childish. I
soon saw also that there was more than girlish--a somewhat infantine
expression in her by no means small features; this lisp and expression
were, I have no doubt, a charm in Edward's eyes, and would be so
to those: of most men, but they were not to mine. I sought her eye,
desirous to read there the intelligence which I could not discern in her
face or hear in her conversation; it was merry, rather small; by turns I
saw vivacity, vanity, coquetry, look out through its irid, but I watched
in vain for a glimpse of soul. I am no Oriental; white necks, carmine
lips and cheeks, clusters of bright curls, do not suffice for me without
that Promethean spark which will live after the roses and lilies are
faded, the burnished hair grown grey. In sunshine, in prosperity, the
flowers are very well; but how many wet days are there in life--November
seasons of disaster, when a man's hearth and home would be cold indeed,
without the clear, cheering gleam of intellect.

"Having perused the fair page of