Meanwhile his affectionate child flung her arms in fond endearment around the neck of Rosilia, who returned her caresses. Beneath that humble roof, Douglas, reclining against the opposite wall, with wrapt contemplation beheld the lovely pair. The soft charms of his child, her flaxen ringlets, her azure eye, formed a pleasing contrast to the rich profusion and ripened lustre of Rosilia's beauty.
She was now more than twenty, but that juvenile innocence, that sweet simplicity of manner, which had so much fascinated him during the dawn of his attachment, still remained. The privations she had since encountered, the sorrows she had overcome, had blended with her meek humility an air of dignity. Her whole deportment, though irresistibly attractive, yet manifested that her virtue, established on the firmest base, could surmount and triumph over every latent weakness of her breast. The reflection did not awe him,—it did not lessen his admiration of her, but it chastened and controlled his passion; while respect, esteem, or some influence still more powerful, seemed to call into action every interior bias of his soul,—every thought, idea, and sentiment combined seemed to attract him closer to her—to unite his heart to hers in the indissoluble links of the purest and most perfect love.
The appearance of Douglas was greatly altered; that animating brilliancy which, as a playful meteor, had before invested him, was no longer visible; his eyes no longer sparkled with the ostentatious beams
