Her hair was very dark and thick, matching her deep liquid eyes,
that lay for the most part so quietly and restfully beneath their
long shading lashes,--eyes gentle, frank, and modest, looking
tenderly on all things innocent, fearlessly on all things harmful;
eyes that nevertheless noted every change of your countenance, and
read unerringly your meaning more from your looks than from your
words. Nothing seemed to hide itself from that pure, searching
glance when she chose to look at you.
In their depths you might read the tokens of a rare and noble
character--a capability of loving which, once enkindled by a worthy
object, might make all things that are possible to devoted womanhood
possible to this woman, who would not count her life anything either
for the man she loved or the cause she espoused. Amelie de
Repentigny will not yield her heart without her judgment; but when
she does, it will be a royal gift--never to be recalled, never to be
repented of, to the end of her life. Happy the man upon whom she
shall bestow her affection! It will be his forever.
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