It represented, as
the poet says, a simple maiden in her flower--a slight young girl, with a
certain childish roundness of contour. There was no ease in her posture;
she was standing, stiffly and shyly, for her likeness; she wore a short-
waisted white dress; her arms hung at her sides and her hands were
clasped in front; her head was bent downward a little, and her dark eyes
fixed. But her awkwardness was as pretty as that of some angular seraph
in a mediaeval carving, and in her timid gaze there seemed to lurk the
questioning gleam of childhood. "What is this for?" her charming eyes
appeared to ask; "why have I been dressed up for this ceremony in a white
frock and amber beads?"
"Gracious powers!" I said to myself; "what an enchanting thing is
innocence!"
"That portrait was taken a year and a half ago," said Pickering, as if
with an effort to be perfectly just. "By this time, I suppose, she looks
a little wiser."
"Not much, I hope," I said, as I gave it back. "She is very sweet!"
"Yes, poor girl, she is very sweet--no doubt!" And he put the thing away
without looking at it.
We were silent for some moments. At last, abruptly--"My dear fellow," I
said, "I should take some satisfaction in seeing you immediately leave
Homburg.
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