She was an Englishwoman of eight-and-twenty; she was blessed with an independent, if modest, income, with decided artistic gifts, with a will of her own, and with a certain beauty which, if not always striking at the first moment, was there, and made itself felt by degrees--growing upon the beholder or the acquaintance, as certainly and as effectually as does some true and sure and noble work of art. She was tall, and graciously formed as to figure; her movements had a persuasive pliancy, yet there was power and strength in the nobly planned limbs; her arms, hands and wrists, in particular, were strong, flexible and beautifully formed. Sculpture was her art, or, perhaps more truly said, her despair. It is the sternest but most glorious of the arts. Now, in Minna’s appearance, at least, there was nothing stern. Yet had she a true conception of her art, and a true veneration for and appreciation of it. Her face was by no means as strikingly beautiful as her figure. Her forehead was wide and large; the thick, wavy, rather coarse auburn hair sprang from it with a sort of wilfulness. The nose was by no means classical in shape or indentation, but it was refined. The fine thin nostrils were almost transparent, and expressed the extreme of sensibility and a quick, nervous temperament. The eyebrows were brown and the eyes dark gray, full of fire, full of dreaminess--artist’s eyes. The mouth was large and mobile, and expressed--what did it express? It could express any and every momentary emotion; on the other hand, it could shut up close and keep its secrets to itself did its owner so choose.