“Ah, but as she is really and truly such a model of beauty, what do you think of offering to make a likeness of her, Mamma?  It will delight her to sit and be looked at, even by me, in the country, and I shall be so much pleased to have such a pleasant occupation.  I am quite reconciled to the idea of going.”

And a note was written, and despatched accordingly.

“But,” persisted Hermione, rising to sit near her Mother, “you do not above half know Aurora.  One would think she had been born in what is called a ‘four warnt way,’ with nothing but cross roads about her.  Nothing is ever right.  She is always either exhausted with the heat of the sun, or frozen with cold, or the evening is so tedious, she wants it to be bedtime, or if there is any unusual gaiety going on, she quarrels with the same length of evening, because it is so intolerably short; and, in short, she is never truly happy but when she is surrounded by admirers, whether men or women.  And this seems to me to be a sad way of ‘getting her time over,’ as the poor women say of life.  Ah, Mamma, it goes but too quickly.”

“Aurora is indeed foolish,” musingly ejaculated the Mother.

“Not altogether either, my dear Mother.  She knows much; but the fault is, she cares for nothing.  She has got the carcase, as it were, of knowledge and accomplishments; but the vivifying spirit is wanting.  You know yourself how well she plays and sings occasionally, if there is a question of charming a room full of company.  Yet there can be no sentiment about her music after all, or it would be an equal pleasure to her at other times.  But really it almost makes me as discontented with life as herself to hear her talk in unexcited hours.  Turning over my books one day, she said, ’You can never be either a poet or a painter, or a Mozart or a philosopher, Hermione? what is the use of all your labour and poking?’ What could I say?  I felt myself colour up, and I laughed out, ’Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is vanity!’ Yet certainly God has set before us the things of earth in order that we may admire and find them out; and that is the answer to all such foolish questions!” And Hermione was turning to leave the room, but she came back and said—­“Do you know, Mamma, though you will laugh at the idea, I do think Aurora would be a very nice girl, and very happy, if she either could grow very ugly all at once, or if any thing in the world could make her forget her beauty.—­And,” added she, in a half whisper, “if there is any thing in Fairy lore, I could almost fancy some cruel Fairy had owed her family a grudge, and had given her this gift of excessive beauty on purpose to be the plague and misfortune of her life.”

* * * * *

“Enough, enough, and too much,” cried Euphrosyne impatiently.  “The matter is now, I think, concluded.  Ianthe and I have failed, and though you are successful, Ambrosia, even you have not come off without a rebuff.  Now, farewell to earth.  I am weary of it.  I do not know your gift, and I am sick of listening to conversations I cannot understand.  Let us begone.  If we de delay, they will begin again.  Ah, my sisters, my spirit yearns for our fairer clime!”