and resolution for to-morrow on the hill-tops that overlook the
sea.

V.

My sister Clara is four years younger than I am. In form of face, in
complexion, and--except the eyes--in features, she bears a striking
resemblance to my father. Her expressions however, must be very like
what my mother's was. Whenever I have looked at her in her silent and
thoughtful moments, she has always appeared to freshen, and even to
increase, my vague, childish recollections of our lost mother. Her
eyes have that slight tinge of melancholy in their tenderness, and that
peculiar softness in their repose, which is only seen in blue eyes. Her
complexion, pale as my father's when she is neither speaking nor moving,
has in a far greater degree than his the tendency to flush, not merely
in moments of agitation, but even when she is walking, or talking on any
subject that interests her. Without this peculiarity her paleness would
be a defect. With it, the absence of any colour in her complexion but
the fugitive uncertain colour which I have described, would to some eyes
debar her from any claims to beauty. And a beauty perhaps she is not--at
least, in the ordinary acceptation of the term.

The lower part of her face is rather too small for the upper, her figure
is too slight, the sensitiveness of her nervous organization is too
constantly visible in her actions and her looks. She would not fix
attention and admiration in a box at the opera; very few men passing her
in the street would turn round to look after her; very few women
would regard her with that slightingly attentive stare, that steady
depreciating scrutiny, which a dashing decided beauty so often receives
(and so often triumphs in receiving) from her personal inferiors among
her own sex. The greatest charms that my sister has on the surface, come
from beneath it.

When you really knew her, when she spoke to you freely, as to a
friend--then, the attraction of her voice, her smile her manner,
impressed you indescribably. Her slightest words and her commonest
actions interested and delighted you, you knew not why. There was
a beauty about her unassuming simplicity, her natural--exquisitely
natural--kindness of heart, and word, and manner, which preserved
its own unobtrusive influence over you, in spite of all other rival
influences, be they what they might. You missed and thought of her,
when you were fresh from the society of the most beautiful and the most
brilliant women. You re