Her face had a wonderful fascination in it.  It was such a calm, quiet face, with the light of the rising soul shining so peacefully through it.  At times it wore an expression of seriousness,—­of sorrow even; and then seemed to make the very air bright with what the Italian poets so beautifully call the lampeggiar dell’ angelico riso,—­the lightning of the angelic smile.

And O, those eyes,—­those deep, unutterable eyes, with “down-falling eyelids, full of dreams and slumber,” and within them a cold, living light, as in mountain lakes at evening, or in the river of Paradise, forever gliding,

“with a brown, brown current

Under the shade perpetual, that never

Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.”

I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star.  Those only are beautiful which, like the planets, have a steady, lambent light;—­are luminous, but not sparkling.  Such eyes the Greek poets give to the Immortals.  But I forget myself.

The lady’s figure was striking.  Every step, every attitude was graceful, and yet lofty, as if inspired by the soul within.  Angels in the old poetic philosophy have such forms; it was the soul itself imprinted on the air.  And what a soul was hers!  A temple dedicated to Heaven, and, like the Pantheon at Rome, lighted only from above.  And earthly passions in the form of gods were no longer there, but the sweet and thoughtful faces of Christ, and the Virgin Mary, and the Saints.  Thus there was not one discordant thing in her; but a perfect harmony of figure, and face, and soul, in a word of the whole being.  And he who had a soul to comprehend hers, must of necessity love her, and, having once loved her, could love no other woman forevermore.

No wonder, then, that Flemming felt his heartdrawn towards her, as, in her morning walk, she passed him, sitting alone under the great walnut trees near the cloister, and thinking of Heaven, but not of her.  She, too, was alone.  Her cheek was no longer pale; but glowing and bright, with the inspiration of the summer air.  Flemming gazed after her till she disappeared, even as a vision of his dreams, he knew not whither.  He was not yet in love, but very near it; for he thanked God, that he had made such beautiful beings to walk the earth.

Last night he had heard a voice to which his soul responded; and he might have gone on his way, and taken no farther heed.  But he would have heard that voice afterwards, whenever at evening he thought of this evening at Interlachen.  To-day he had seen more clearly the vision, and his restless soul calm.  The place seemed pleasant to him; and he could not go.  He did not ask himself whence came this calm.  He felt it; and was happy in the feeling; and blessed thelandscape and the summer morning, as if they possessed the wonder-working power.

“A pleasant morning dream to you;” said a friendly voice; and at the same moment some one laid his hand upon Flemming’s shoulder.  It was Berkley.  He had approached unseen and unheard.