“And pleasing; more than that, even—engaging; winning, is a better term.” “Ned, you dog, you have never told the widow one-half!” “Every syllable. I even went farther, and declared I had never beheld a countenance that, in so short an interview, made so deep an impression on me. If I were not to see this young woman again, I should never forget the expression of her face—so spirited, so sad, so gentle, so feminine, and so very intelligent. It seemed to me to be what I should call an illuminated countenance.” “Handsome?” “Not unusually so, among our sweet American girls, except through the expression. That was really wonderful; though, you will remember, I saw her under very peculiar circumstances.” “Oh, exceedingly peculiar. Dear old soul; what a thump she has given him! How were her mouth and her teeth?—complexion, stature, figure, and smile?” “I can tell you little of all these. Her teeth are fine; for she gave me a faint smile, such as a lady is apt to give a man in quitting him, and I saw just enough of the teeth to know that they are exceedingly fine. You smile, young gentlemen; but _you_ may have a care for your hearts, in good truth; for if this strange girl interests either of you one-half as much as she has interested me, she will be either Mrs. John Wilmeter, or Mrs. Michael Millington, within a twelvemonth.” Michael looked very sure that she would never fill the last situation, which was already bespoke for Miss Sarah Wilmeter; and as for Jack, he laughed outright. “We’ll tell Mrs. Updyke of him, when we get back, and break off that affair, at least,” cried the uncle, winking at the nephew, but in a way his friend should see him; “then there will be one marriage the less in the world.” “But is she a lady, doctor?” demanded John, after a short pause. “My wife must have some trifling claims in that way, I can assure you.” “As for family, education, association and fortune, I can say nothing,—I know nothing. Yet will I take upon myself to say she _is_ a lady,—and that, in the strict signification of the term.” “You are not serious now, Ned!” exclaimed the counsellor, quickly. “Not a _bony fide_, as some of our gentlemen have it? You cannot mean _exactly_ what you say.” “I do, though; and that literally.” “And she suspected of arson and murder! Where are her connections and friends,—those who made her a lady? Why is she there alone, and, as you say, unfriended?” “So it seemed to me. You might as well ask me why she is there, at all. I know nothing of all this. I heard plenty of reasons in the street, why she ought to be distrusted,—nay, convicted; for the feeling against her had got to be intense, before I left Biberry; but no one could tell me whence she came, or why she was there.” “Did you learn her name?” “Yes; that was in every mouth, and I could not help hearing it. She was called Mary Monson by the people of Biberry—but I much doubt if that be her real name.”