Miss Oliver already honoured me with frequent visits to my cottage.

I had learnt her whole character, which was without mystery or

disguise: she was coquettish but not heartless; exacting, but not

worthlessly selfish. She had been indulged from her birth, but was

not absolutely spoilt. She was hasty, but good-humoured; vain (she

could not help it, when every glance in the glass showed her such a

flush of loveliness), but not affected; liberal-handed; innocent of

the pride of wealth; ingenuous; sufficiently intelligent; gay,

lively, and unthinking: she was very charming, in short, even to a

cool observer of her own sex like me; but she was not profoundly

interesting or thoroughly impressive. A very different sort of mind

was hers from that, for instance, of the sisters of St. John.

Still, I liked her almost as I liked my pupil Adele; except that,

for a child whom we have watched over and taught, a closer affection

is engendered than we can give an equally attractive adult

acquaintance.

She had taken an amiable caprice to me. She said I was like Mr.

Rivers, only, certainly, she allowed, "not one-tenth so handsome,

though I was a nice neat little soul enough, but he was an angel."

I was, however, good, clever, composed, and firm, like him. I was a

lusus naturae, she affirmed, as a village schoolmistress: she was

sure my previous history, if known, would make a delightful romance.

One evening, while, with her usual child-like activity, and

thoughtless yet not offensive inquisitiveness, she was rummaging the

cupboard and the table-drawer of my little kitchen, she discovered

first two French books, a volume of Schiller, a German grammar and

dictionary, and then my drawing-materials and some sketches,

including a pencil-head of a pretty little cherub-like girl, one of

my scholars, and sundry views from nature, taken in the Vale of

Morton and on the surrounding moors. She was first transfixed with

surprise, and then electrified with delight.

"Had I done these pictures? Did I know French and German? What a

love--what a miracle I was! I drew better than her master in the

first school in S-. Would I sketch a portrait of her, to show to

papa?"

"With pleasure," I replied; and I felt a thrill of artist--delight

at the idea of copying from so perfect and radiant a model. She had

then on a dark-blue silk dress; her arms and her neck were bare; her

only ornament was her chestnut tresses, which waved over her

shoulders with all the wild grace of natural curls. I took a sheet

of fine card-board, and drew a careful outline. I promised myself

the pleasure of colouring it; and, as it was getting late then, I

told her she must come and sit another day.




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