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.

She made such a report of me to her father, that Mr. Oliver himself accompanied her next evening —­ a tall, massive-featured, middle-aged, and grey-headed man, at whose side his lovely daughter looked like a bright flower near a hoary turret.  He appeared a taciturn, and perhaps a proud personage; but he was very kind to me.  The sketch of Rosamond’s portrait pleased him highly:  he said I must make a finished picture of it.  He insisted, too, on my coming the next day to spend the evening at Vale Hall.