Is Gertrude a beauty? By no means. Hers is a face and form about which there would be a thousand different opinions, and few would pronounce her beautiful. But there are faces whose ever-varying expression one loves to watch—tell-tale faces, that speak the truth and proclaim the sentiment within; faces that now light up with intelligence, now beam with mirth, now sadden at the tale of sorrow, now burn with a holy indignation for that which the soul abhors, and faces sanctified by the divine presence, when the heart turns from the world and itself, and looks upward in the spirit of devotion. Such a face was Gertrude's. There are forms which, though neither dignified nor fairy-like, possess a grace, an ease, a power of moving airily in their sphere—and such a form was Gertrude's. Whatever charm these attractions might give her—and many estimated it highly—it was greatly enhanced by an utter unconsciousness, on her part, of possessing any attractions at all.
As she perceived Miss Graham coming to meet her, she quickened her pace, and joining her near the door-step, where a path led into the garden, passed her arm affectionately over Emily's shoulder, in a manner which the latter's blindness, and Gertrude's superior height and ability to act as guide, had rendered usual, and said, while she drew the shawl closer around her blind friend, "Here I am again, Miss Emily! Have you been alone since I went away?"
"Yes, dear, most of the time, and have been worried to think you were travelling about in Boston this excessive warm day."
"It has not hurt me in the least; I only enjoy this cool breeze all the more—it is such a contrast to the heat and dust of the city!"
"But, Gerty," said Emily, stopping short in their walk, "what are you coming away from the house for? You have not been to tea, my child."
"I know it, Emily, but I don't want any supper."
They walked slowly and in perfect silence. At last Emily said, "Well, Gertrude, have you nothing to tell me?"
"O yes, a great deal, but——"
"But you know it will be sad news to me, and so you don't like to speak it; is it not so?"
"I ought not to have the vanity, dear Emily, to think it would trouble you very much; but ever since last evening, when I told you what Mr. W. said, and what I had in my mind, and you seemed to feel so badly at the thought of our being separated, I have felt almost doubtful what it was right for me to do."