devil's spleen couldn't detect an unevenness to hang upon it a suspicion
against her."

"You are even more partial, Francis, than the painter," said I, "whom I
have been charging with the fault of drawing upon his fancy to enable
him to draw upon our credulity. She looks scarcely earthly."

"It's no use my description, sir. There are certain perfections
we cannot attribute to God's creatures, because we suffer by the
comparison. They say if there's not now and then a little anger there's
a want. Oh! they will say God's image is not perfect if it have not a
dash of our own evil in it. But experience is the mother of wonders as
well as wisdom. Aye, sir, years of intercourse, even at a servant's
distance, are worth more than your theories in these days."

"I suspect you have been in the library, Francis," said I; "you have
opened books as well as bottles."

"Aye, sir, and _the book_ of all books," replied he seriously; "but I
hope I am not irreverend when I say that God may lead us to understand
the first image in Eden by showing us sometimes something better here
than what we can feel within our own hearts."

"Oh, I am not sceptical," said I; for I thought he was pained by my
remark, as if I doubted the qualities of his idol. "I believe all you
have said of poor Lillah; and I love for the sake of my own matrimonial
hopes to believe it, and more. But this idol died!"

"And died young, sir; perhaps because she was an idol," replied he.
"They don't live long, sir, these creatures. They're like some of those
bright winged things of the East, of which I have read, that exist only
so long as the rose blooms on which they hang and live. But my lady
Lillah never dwined--only there came a sadness over her, and master
noticed that she began to cherish more than usual a miniature which she
carried about with her in her bosom--the figure of a lady--I have seen
it often--so like herself you'd have said they were of the same
family--'twas her mother, whom she called Euphrosyne. Even now I think I
see her sitting in the rose arbour in the garden, with little Caleb by
her side, gazing at that picture, so long, so thoughtfully, so pitifully
that she seemed ready to weep; then she would, as if recalled by
remorse, hug the child, and bid him run for his father; then Mr. Bernard
would no sooner come than she would be so much more loving than was even
her wont, that he seemed oppressed by the very fervour of her affection.
Master was