One of those natures gifted with all the tenderness that belongs to the angel idea-- woman; yet soaring above her sex in the paralysing moments of peril and despair.

Her feelings, in relation to her sister's cruelty to the gold-fish, proved the existence of the former principle; her actions, in attempting my own rescue when battling with the monster, were evidence of the latter.

One of those natures that may err from the desperate intensity of one passion, that knows no limit to its self-sacrifice short of destruction and death.

One of those beings that may fall--but _only once_.
"What would I not give--what would I not do--to be the hero of such a heart ?" These were my reflections as I quitted the house.
I had noted every word, every look, every action, that could lend me a hope; and my memory conjured up, and my judgment canvassed, each little circumstance in its turn.
How strange her conduct at bidding adieu! How unlike her sister! Less friendly and sincere; and yet from this very circumstance I drew my happiest omen.
Strange--is it not?
My experience has taught me that love and hate for the _same_ object can exist in the _same_ heart, and at the _same_ time.
If this be a paradox, I am a child of error.
I believed it then; and her apparent coldness, which would have rendered many another hopeless, produced with me an opposite effect.
Then came the cloud--the thought of Don Santiago--and a painful feeling shot through my heart.
"Don Santiago, a naval officer, young, handsome.

Bah! hers is not a heart to be won by a face." Such were my reflections and half-uttered expressions as I slowly led my soldiers through the tangled path.
Don Santiago's age and his appearance were the creations of a jealous fancy.