But a surprise was in store for him. The cottage door was opened, in response to his somewhat boisterous knock, by a young woman of dazzling beauty. Hugh Bronte, previous to his flight, had seen few women except his Aunt Mary, and in the days of his freedom he had become acquainted only with lodging-house keepers and County Louth women who carried their fowl and eggs to Dundalk fairs and markets. He had scarcely ever seen a comely girl, and never in his life any one who had any attractions for him. The simply dressed, artless girl who opened the door was probably the prettiest girl in County Down at the time. The rector of Magherally, who married her, pronounced her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her hair, which hung in a profusion of ringlets round her shoulders, was luminous gold. Her forehead was Parian marble. Her evenly set teeth were lustrous pearls, and the roses of health glowed on her cheeks. She had the long brown eyelashes that in Ireland so often accompany golden hair, and her deep brown eyes had the violet tint and melting expression which, in a diluted form, descended to her granddaughters, and made the plain and irregular faces of the Bronte girls really attractive. The eyes also contained the lambent fire that Mrs. Gaskell noticed in Charlotte's eyes, ready to flash indignation and scorn. She had a tall and stately figure, with head well poised above a graceful neck and well-formed bust; but she did not communicate these graces of form to her granddaughters. There are people still living who remember the stately old woman, "Alys Bronte," as she was called by her neighbors in her old age. Hugh Bronte was completely unmanned by the radiant beauty of the simple country girl who stood before him. He stood awkwardly staring at her with his mouth open, working with his hat, and trying in vain to say something. At last he stammered out a question about Mr. McClory, and the girl, who was Alice McClory, told him that her brother would soon be home, and invited him into the house. He entered, blushing and feeling uncomfortable, but the unaffected simplicity of Alice McClory's manner soon put him at his ease, and before the brother Patrick, known afterwards as "Red Paddy," had returned home, he was madly and hopelessly in love with his sister. Like his son, the Reverend Patrick Bronte, in England, and like the Irish curate who proposed marriage to Charlotte on the strength of one night's acquaintance, Hugh, dazzled by beauty and blinded by love, declared his passion before he had discovered any signs of mutual liking, or had any evidence that his advances would be agreeable. Alice, in simple, but cold and business-like manner, told him that she did not yet know him; but that as he was a Protestant, and she a Catholic, there was an insuperable bar between them. Hugh urged that he himself had no religion, never having darkened a church door, and that he was quite willing to be anything she wished him to be.