They were fair in her eyes; what matter whether they were like nature?
his hand had painted them.

She knew, from him, that everybody else had rejected them.

With all the more pride and love did she have them framed in gold, and hung up with the portraits in her little sanctum.
For a few months Phoebe Dale was as happy as she deserved to be.

Her lover was working, and faithful to her--at least she saw no reason to doubt it.

He came to see her every evening, and seemed devoted to her: would sit quietly with her, or walk with her, or take her to a play, or a music-hall--at her expense.
She now lived in a quiet elysium, with a bright and rapturous dream of the future; for she saw she had hit on a good vein of business, and should soon be independent, and able to indulge herself with a husband, and ask no man's leave.
She sent to Essex for a dairymaid, and set her to churn milk into butter, coram populo, at a certain hour every morning.