For James, though he had not yet admitted the fact to his own heart, loved Christine Cameron as men love only once, with that deep, pure affection that has perchance a nearer kindred than this life has hinted of.
He thought her also exquisitely beautiful, though this opinion would not have been indorsed by a majority of men.

For Christine had one of those pale, statuesque faces apt to be solemn in repose; its beauty was tender and twilight, its expression serious and steadfast, and her clear, spiritual eyes held in them no light of earthly passion.

She had grown up in that little back parlor amid the din and tumult of the city, under the gray, rainy skies, and surrounded by care and sin, as a white lily grows out of the dark, damp soil, drawing from the elements around only sweetness and purity.
She was very silent this afternoon, but apparently very happy.

Indeed, there was an expression on her face which attracted her father's attention, and he said, "The sermon has pleased thee well, I see, Christine." "The sermon was good, but the text was enough, father.

I think it over in my heart, and it leaves a light on all the common things of life." And she repeated it softly, "O Thou preserver of men, unto Thee shall all flesh come." David lifted his bonnet reverently, and James, who was learned in what the Scotch pleasantly call "the humanities," added slowly, "'But I, the mortal, Planted so lowly, with death to bless me, I sorrow no longer.'" When people have such subjects of conversation, they talk moderately--for words are but poor interpreters of emotions whose sources lie in the depths of eternity.