pensate to a woman for the want of exterior attraction. There is a nameless fascination about beauty, which seems, like all fairy gifts, crowded into one. It wins without an effort, and obtains credit for possessing every thing else. How many mortifications, from its very cradle, has the unpleasing exterior to endure! To be unloved—what a fate for a woman whose element is love!
Poor Constance was originally pretty: the outline of the features was still graceful, but long sickness had contracted, and given an expression of suffering; while all colouring had faded into a cold white. The eyes were heavy, and their naturally soft blue was dim and faded before its time. Her figure was slight; but the cruel accident—a fall in her childhood, which had laid the foundation of her ill health—had made her a little aside, and caused a degree of lameness, which rendered it difficult for her to move without assistance. The only positive beauty she possessed was a profusion of hair of the softest gold, which gave the
