Emily Dumont was a beautiful girl, fair as the lily, gentle as the dove.
She was of a medium height, and of slender and graceful form. Her step
was light and elastic, and, if there was any poetry in her light,
elegant form, there was more in her easy, fairy-like motion. Her
features were as daintily moulded as her form. Her eye was light blue,
soft, and beautifully expressive of a pure heart. She was a little paler
than the connoisseur in female loveliness would demand in his ideal, and
her expression was a little inclined to sadness; but it was a
sadness--or rather a sweet dignity--more winning than repulsive to the
gazer.
Emily Dumont, highly as fortune had favored her in the bestowal of
worldly goods and personal beauty, was still more blessed in the gifts
of an expansive mind and a gentle heart; and mind and heart had both
been faithfully cultivated by the assiduous care of her devoted father.
She was a true woman,--not a mere plaything to while away a dandy's idle
hours, not a piece of tinsel to adorn the parlor of a nabob, but a true
woman,--one fitted by nature and education to adorn all the varied
scenes of life.
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