Does my poor portrait of her, my fond, patient labour of long and happy days, show me these things?  Ah, how few of them are in the dim mechanical drawing, and how many in the mind with which I regard it!  A fair, delicate girl, in a pretty light dress, trifling with the leaves of a sketch-book, while she looks up from it with truthful, innocent blue eyes—­that is all the drawing can say; all, perhaps, that even the deeper reach of thought and pen can say in their language, either.  The woman who first gives life, light, and form to our shadowy conceptions of beauty, fills a void in our spiritual nature that has remained unknown to us till she appeared.  Sympathies that lie too deep for words, too deep almost for thoughts, are touched, at such times, by other charms than those which the senses feel and which the resources of expression can realise.  The mystery which underlies the beauty of women is never raised above the reach of all expression until it has claimed kindred with the deeper mystery in our own souls.  Then, and then only, has it passed beyond the narrow region on which light falls, in this world, from the pencil and the pen.

Think of her as you thought of the first woman who quickened the pulses within you that the rest of her sex had no art to stir.  Let the kind, candid blue eyes meet yours, as they met mine, with the one matchless look which we both remember so well.  Let her voice speak the music that you once loved best, attuned as sweetly to your ear as to mine.  Let her footstep, as she comes and goes, in these pages, be like that other footstep to whose airy fall your own heart once beat time.  Take her as the visionary nursling of your own fancy; and she will grow upon you, all the more clearly, as the living woman who dwells in mine.

Among the sensations that crowded on me, when my eyes first looked upon her—­familiar sensations which we all know, which spring to life in most of our hearts, die again in so many, and renew their bright existence in so few—­there was one that troubled and perplexed me:  one that seemed strangely inconsistent and unaccountably out of place in Miss Fairlie’s presence.

Mingling with the vivid impression produced by the charm of her fair face and head, her sweet expression, and her winning simplicity of manner, was another impression, which, in a shadowy way, suggested to me the idea of something wanting.  At one time it seemed like something wanting in her:  at another, like something wanting in myself, which hindered me from understanding her as I ought.  The impression was always strongest in the most contradictory manner, when she looked at me; or, in other words, when I was most conscious of the harmony and charm of her face, and yet, at the same time, most troubled by the sense of an incompleteness which it was impossible to discover.  Something wanting, something wanting—­and where it was, and what it was, I could not say.