He gazed about rather listlessly for a while, but at length his attention became fixed on a young lady who stood at the black-board, proving with great elegance and precision a difficult proposition in Euclid. He was observing the admirable taste of her dress, the delicacy and willowy grace of her figure, when suddenly, while raising her arm in drawing her diagram, a small comb of shell dropped from her head, and a rich mass of hair fell over her shoulders.
And such hair!—it was wondrously luxuriant, not precisely curly, but rippling all through with small glossy waves, just ready to roll themselves into ringlets, and of that peculiar, indescribable color between a brown and a bright auburn.
Preston, who felt that the possessor of such magnificent hair must be beautiful, waited impatiently for a sight at the face of the fair geometrician; but, without turning her head, she stepped quietly back, took up the comb, quickly re-arranged her hair, and went on with her problem. It was not until this was finished, and she took her seat among the other pupils, that Preston had a full view of her face. He was more keenly disappointed than he would have acknowledged, when he saw only plainness, in place of the beauty he so confidently expected. Yet Dora Allen was by no means disagreeably plain; her features were regular, and her complexion extremely fair. She was only thin, wan and somewhat spiritless in appearance. Her face was “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought”—with thought her young eye seemed shadowed, her young brow burdened. But there was a sweet and lovable spirit looking out from the depths of those dreamy eyes, and hovering about those quiet and almost colorless lips, which told the observer that her rare intellectual attainments had not stood in the way of her simple affections, to hinder their generous development.
Frederic Preston liked Dora Allen’s face somewhat better as he regarded it more closely, and when, at the close of the exercises, this young lady was called forward to receive the highest honors of the institution—when she advanced timidly, and bowed modestly, to be crowned with a wreath of rose-buds and lilies of the valley, while a sudden flush kindled in her cheek, flowed into her quivering lips, and illuminated her whole countenance, she grew absolutely beautiful in his eyes.
Our hero was not sorry to learn that Miss Allen was the most intimate friend of his sister Anna, from whom he soon ascertained that she was an orphan, within a few years past, adopted by an uncle, a clergyman of the place—that she was about eighteen—of an amiable, frank and noble disposition, yet chiefly distinguished for her fine intellectual endowments and studious habits.
I will not dwell on what my shrewd reader already anticipates—the love and marriage of Frederic Preston and Dora Allen. I will not dwell on the sad parting scene, when, within six months from “the happiest day of his life,” Captain Preston set sail for Canton, his brave spirit strangely cast down, the once gay light of his eyes quenched in tears, and with a long tress of rich auburn hair lying close against his heart.
On account of some business arrangements which he was to make at Canton, he must be absent somewhat more than two years. He desired greatly to take his young wife with him, but feared, from knowing her delicate organization, that she could not endure the voyage. He left her in a pretty cottage-home, which he himself had fitted up for her, in sight of the harbor.
Dora had living with her a widowed elder sister, whose society and assistance were much comfort to her, in her otherwise most lonely lot.
Among the many letters which Captain Preston received from his loving and constant wife during his absence, there was one which he read with peculiar joy—with tears of grateful emotion. For this was not alone from the bride of his bosom, but from the mother of his child. Thus wrote Dora:
“Our boy is four weeks old to-day, and my heart is already gladdened by his striking resemblance to you, dearest. He has your fine olive complexion, your large black eyes and dark, curling hair. I call him Frederic, and have great joy in often repeating the beloved name.”