The daughter of my mother's dearest friend had been with
us about a year. Dearly we all loved the gentle child, for scarcely
more than child she was--only sixteen. My mother had taken her from
the cold, lifeless form of her mother into her own warm, loving heart,
and she became to me as a sister. So fair and frail she was! We all
watched her with the tenderest care, guarding her from all that could
chill her sensitive nature or wound the already saddened heart. Lilly
was her name. Oh, what a delicate white lily she was when we first
brought her to our home; but after a while she was won from her
sorrow, and grew into a maiden of great beauty. Still, with
child-like, winning ways.
"Great wells of love were in her blue eyes--violet hue _he_ called
them. Often I wondered if any one's gaze would linger on my dark eyes
when hers were near? Her pale golden hair was pushed off her broad
forehead and fell in heavy waves far down below her graceful shoulders
and over her black dress. Small delicately-formed features, a
complexion so fair and clear that it seemed transparent. In her blue
eyes there was always such a sad, wistful look; this, and the gentle
smile that ever hovered about her lips, gave an expression of mingled
sweetness and sorrow that was very touching.
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