In one, a small volume of miscellaneous
poems, Ellen's name was inscribed on the fly-leaf, in a graceful Italian
hand, evidently a lady's writing.
"This fisherman's daughter must certainly be a very superior person," he
said to himself, as he turned over page after page, observing with the
eye of a critic,--for literature to him had been a familiar study from
early youth,--that the finest passages were the only ones marked,
proving, conclusively, that they had been the reader's favorites.
"Strange to find one like her in so remote and desolate a spot," and,
half-aloud, he read the stanzas, in which he had just opened, smiling as
he thought how true they were in this instance.
"Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
He was interrupted by the clear, sweet tones of a woman's voice in an
adjoining room.
"You will find my chamber quite comfortable, Mrs.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122