"And have been for the last month or so, I should say," her brother rejoined, assuming the mock air and tone of a judge, as he gravely continued his research; "that is to say, judging from the extent of the influence I see has been exercised upon your face. No, do not tell me, who have been amongst the shrewd, long-headed Yankees, that any true sisterly feelings have given such diamond brightness to your eyes, such radiant beauty to your cheek and brow."
The young man was right. The change he marked was not the influence of the present happy hour; a stronger and less recent power had done the magic work.
Mary had become, within the last few months, what less partial judges than a brother might have rightly owned as "almost beautiful."
"But, Melanie, I little dreamed
What spells the stirring heart may move,
Pygmalion's statue never seemed
More charged with life than she with love.
The pearl-tint of the early dawn
Flush'd into day spring's rosy hue,
The meek moss folded bud of morn,
That opens to the light and dew.
The first and half-seen star of even
Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven.
Similitudes perchance may be,
But these are changes oftener seen,
And do not image half to me
My sister's change of face and mien;
'Twas written in her very air
That love had passed and entered there."
"Well, well," he continued, as he marked the conscious effect his latter words had made upon his sister's speaking countenance, "tell me all about it, and what is that very interesting piece of news, you mentioned in your letter, awaiting my arrival?"
"Dear, dear Arthur, I am going to be married."
The young man made a theatrical start backwards, of affected wonder and amazement.
"Going to be married!" he repeated, "and how do you know whether I will give my consent?"
"Oh, you will! I am sure you will, when you know and hear all about it; and when you have seen Eugene."
"Eugene! what a very delightfully romantic name, for my dear little romantic sister; and who is this Eugene?"