30
WYLDER'S HAJVD.
On a cabinet near to where she stood was a casket of
ormolu, which she unlocked, and took out a miniature,
opened, and looked at it for a long time. I knew very
well whose it was, and watched her countenance; for, she
interested me strangely. I suppose she knew I was look-
ing at her; but she showed always a queenlike indiffer-
ence about what people might think or observe. There
was no sentimental softening; but her gaze was such as
I once saw the same proud and handsome face turn upon
the dead — pale, exquisite, perhaps a little stern. What
she read there — what procession of thoughts and images
passed by — threw neither light nor shadow on her face.
Its apathy interested me inscrutably.
t> At last she placed the picture in my hand, and asked,
"Is this really very like her?"
"It is, and it is not," I said, after a little pause. "The
features are true: it is what I call an accurate portrait,
but that is all, I dare say, exact as it is, it would give to
one who had not seen her a false, as it must an inade-
quate, idea of the orignal. There is something naive and
spiriluel, and very tender in her face, which he has not
caught — perhaps it could hardly be fixed in colors."
"Yes. I always heard, her expression and intelligence
were very beautiful. It was the beauty of mobility —
true beauty."
"There is a beauty of another stamp, equally exquisite;
Miss Brandon, and perhaps more overpowering." I said
this in nearly a whisper, and in a very marked way,
almost tender, and the next moment was amazed at my
own audacity. She looked on me for a second or two, with
her dark drowsy look, and then it returned to the picture,
which was again in her hand. There was a total want of
interest in the careless sort of surprise she vouchsafed my
little sally; neither was there the slightest resentment.