She was tall beyond the ordinary height of woman, and possessed unusual beauty of form, that the tight-fitting grey dress she wore was well calculated to display.  Her complexion, which was of a dazzling fairness, was set off by the darkness of the lashes that curled over the deep grey eyes.  The face itself was rounded and very lovely, and surmounted by an ample forehead, whilst her hair, which was twisted into a massive knot, was of a tinge of chestnut gold, and marked with deep-set ripples.  The charm of her face, however, did not, as is so often the case, begin and end with its physical attractions.  There was more, much more, in it than that.  But how is it possible to describe on paper a presence at once so full of grace and dignity, of the soft loveliness of woman, and of a higher and more spiritual beauty?  There hangs in the Louvre a picture by Raphael, which represents a saint passing with light steps over the prostrate form of a dragon.  There is in that heaven-inspired face, the equal of which has been rarely, if ever, put on canvas, a blending of earthly beauty and of the calm, awe-compelling spirit-gaze—­that gaze, that holy dignity which can only come to such as are in truth and in deed “pure in heart”—­that will give to those who know it a better idea of what Angela was like than any written description.

At times, but, ah, how rarely! we may have seen some such look as that she wore on the faces of those around us.  It may be brought by a great sorrow, or be the companion of an overwhelming joy.  It may announce the consummation of some sublime self-sacrifice, or convey the swift assurance of an everlasting love.  It is to be found alike on the features of the happy mother as she kisses her new-born babe, and on the pallid countenance of the saint sinking to his rest.  The sharp moment that brings us nearer God, and goes nigh to piercing the veil that hides His presence, is the occasion that calls it into being.  It is a beauty born of the murmuring sound of the harps of heaven; it is the light of the eternal lamp gleaming faintly through its earthly casket.

This spirit-look, before which all wickedness must feel ashamed, had found a home in Angela’s grey eyes.  There was a strange nobility about her.  Whether it dwelt in the stately form, or on the broad brow, or in the large glance of the deep eyes, it is not possible to say; but it was certainly a part of herself as self-evident as her face or features.  She might well have been the inspiration of the lines that run: 

“Truth in her might, beloved,
Grand in her sway;
Truth with her eyes, beloved,
Clearer than day;
Holy and pure, beloved,
Spotless and free;
Is there one thing, beloved,
Fairer than thee?”

Mr. Fraser absently set down the tea that Angela was giving him when we took the liberty to describe her personal appearance.

“Now, Angela, read a little.”

“What shall I read?”