ar, but the mouth was fresh and bewitching,
the lips of a lovely bright red, the complexion fair, and the clear blue
eyes soft and kind. All her actions were graceful: she had beautiful
hands--which is something particularly lovely in a lady--yet she was not
solicitous to keep them always in view, and this beautified them still
more. She dressed with much taste, almost always in light colours; this
and the soft rose scent which she loved, and which always accompanied
her, lent to her whole being a something especially mild and agreeable.
One might compare her to moonlight; she moved softly, and her voice was
low and sweet, which, as Shakspeare says, is "an excellent thing in
woman." Seeing her, as one often might do, reclining on a soft couch,
playing with a flower or caressing a child, one could scarcely fancy her
the superintendent of a large household, with all its appertaining
work-people and servants; and beyond this, as the instructor of many
children: yet love and sense of duty had led her to the performance of
all this, had reconciled her to that which her natural inclinations were
so averse to; nay, by degrees indeed, had made these very cares dear to
her--whatever concerned the children lay near to her heart, whilst
order, pleasantness, and peace, regulated the house. The contents of the
linen-press were dear to her; a snow-white tablecloth was her delight;
grey linen, dust, and flies, were hated by her, as far as she could hate
anything.

But let us now proceed with our historical sketches.

We left Elise at her manuscript, by which she became soon so deeply
occupied that the clock struck twelve unperceived by her; nor was she
aware of the flight of time till a sudden terror thrilled her as she
heard her husband return. To throw her manuscript into her drawer, and
quickly undress, had been an easy thing for her, and she was about to do
so, when the thought occurred, "I have never hitherto kept my
proceedings secret from Ernst, and to-day I will not begin to do so;"
and she remained at her writing-table till he entered the room.

"What! yet up, and writing?" said he, with a displeased glance. "Is it
thus you keep your promise, Elise?"

"Pardon me, Ernst," said she; "I had forgotten myself."

"And for what?" asked he. "What are you writing? No, let me see! What! a
novel, as I live! Now, what use is this?"

"What use is it?" returned Elise. "Ah, to give me pleasure."

"But people should have sense and rea