“A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet. And her modest answer, and graceful air, Show her wise and good, as she is fair. Would she were mine; and I to-day A simple harvester of hay; With low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words.” Then he thought of his sister, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. J. G. WHITTIER. “What a remarkably pretty girl Mrs. Barton has for a nursery maid,” said Mrs. Vernon to her daughter. “Yes, mamma; and it seems quite useless for a servant to be so handsome. What good will it do _her_?” She glanced at the mirror, as she spoke, and seemed less satisfied than usual with her own pretty face. She was thinking to herself, “If I had as much beauty as _she_ has, I shouldn’t despair of winning a duke.” A similar idea flashed across Mrs. Vernon’s mind, as she noticed the involuntary appeal to the mirror. Therefore, she sighed as she answered, “Instead of doing her good, it will doubtless prove a misfortune. Some dissipated lord will take a fancy to her; but he will soon become weary of her, and will marry her to the first good-natured clown, who can be hired to take her.” “Very likely,” replied Miss Julia; “and after living with a nobleman, she can never be happy with a person of her own condition.” The prospect of such a future in reserve for the rustic beauty seemed by no means painful to the aristocratic young lady. Indeed, one might conjecture, from her manner, that she regarded it as no more than a suitable punishment for presuming to be handsomer than her superiors in rank.