met with or known any other female, combining in her own person such extraordinary beauty and dignity—­such obvious candor of heart—­such graceful and irresistible simplicity, or who was encompassed by an atmosphere of such truth and purity—­the effect was such as absolutely confounded himself, and taught him to feel how far they go in purifying, elevating, and refining those who come within the sphere of their influence.  This young man, for instance, was touched, softened, and awed into such an involuntary respect for her character and virtues, that he felt himself almost unable to sustain the part he had undertaken to play, so far at least as she was concerned.  In fact, he felt himself changed for the better, and was forced, as it were, to look in upon his own heart, and contemplate its deformity by the light that emanated from her character.  Nor was this singular but natural influence unperceived by her father, who began to fear that if they were to be much together, he must ultimately lose the connivance and support of his son.

Thomas took the portrait from her hand, and, after contemplating it for some time, felt himself bound to kiss it, which he did, with a momentary consciousness of his hypocrisy that felt like guilt.

“It is most interesting,” said he; “there is goodness, indeed, and benignity, as you say, in every line of that placid but sorrowful face.  Here,” said he, “take it back, my dear sister; I feel that it is painful to me to look upon it.”

“It has been my secret companion,” said Lucy, gazing at it with deep emotion, “and my silent monitress ever since poor mamma’s death.  It seemed to say to me with those sweet lips that will never more move:  Be patient, my child, and put your firm trust in the hopes of a better life, for this world is one of trial and suffering.”

“That is all very fine, Lucy,” said her father, somewhat fretfully; “but it would have been as well if she had preached a lesson of obedience at the same time.  However, you had better withdraw, my dear; as I told you, Thomas and I have many important matters to talk over.”

“I am ready to go, papa,” she replied; “but, by the way, my dear Thomas, I had always heard that you resembled her very much; instead of that, you are papa’s very image.”

“A circumstance which will take from his favor with you, Lucy, I fear,” observed her father; “but, indeed, I myself am surprised at the change that has come over you, Thomas; for, unquestionably, when young you were very like her.”

“These changes are not at all unfrequent, I believe,” replied his son.  “I have myself known instances where the individual when young resembled one parent, and yet, in the course of time, became as it were the very image and reflex of the other.”

“You are perfectly right, Tom,” said his father; “every family is aware of the fact, and you yourself are a remarkable illustration of it.”

“I am not sorry for resembling my dear father, Lucy,” observed her brother; “and I know I shall lose nothing in your good will on that account, but rather gain by it.”