And yet, ten years after the triumphs of her girlhood, this day, this hour, found her more beautiful than she had ever been before.

The stimulus of a new and more perfect climate, the daily labour for which others pitied her, had done their part.

The angels who watch over prayer and effort and failure; and failure and effort and prayer, had laid their hands upon her brow, bestowing graces.

As she sat now, speaking out of a full heart, there came a colour and light that gave an ethereal charm to her handsome face.

There was no one there to see it; Eliza Cameron was not susceptible to beauty.