It was Mrs.Hollingford's face that did it as she sat, kind, careful, hospitable, pressing on me sweet home-made cakes, fresh butter, fragrant tea, delicious cream, and delicate pink eggs.

Ah me! it was her face that did it.

There was my great lady, my beneficent friend, my valiant woman.

Her eyes were somewhat sunken, the fire of their energy a trifle slackened, her brow a little seamed; the strain of fortitude had drawn a tight cord about her mouth.

Whence, then, that new touching beauty that made one see the stamp of heaven's nobility shining on her face?
Had I quite forgotten her, or was she indeed something new?
It was as if grief had chiselled her features afresh out of the superfluous roundings of prosperity, wasted them into perfect sweetness, hacked them into purer refinement.