The blue beam of your steadfast eyes may turn
his own to heaven; a chance-caught, low, sweet tone of your voice may
check clamour; an answer may turn his wrath.... You can be picture, form,
poem, symphony in one.... Think of it, Sanchia, before you turn away.
Think well whether upon that exquisite medium you cannot express your
best."_
She found herself trembling--in these days she easily trembled--as she re-
read these words. That such a power should indeed be hers--and how could
she fail to believe it?--was inspiration enough to send her to the fire.
She read no more, but used to sit shivering, thrilling through every fibre
of her body, with the strength of such splendid praise. For whatever might
be her fate, splendid it was to have been so loved, so seen, and so
praised. It was well for Ingram that she read her old love-letters--and
extremely unfortunate for the writer of them, who anguished for her now in
his desert place. Odd situation! that the love-letters of one man should
reconcile her to the arms of another.
From Torquay, where she spent the Easter holidays with her father, the two
alone and happily together, she wrote two or three times to Nevile. He was
at Wanless, professedly getting some order into things there, and
protesting to her by every word he sent her upon the need there was of her
hand upon affairs.
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