The leaves were all springing in the woods; the meadows were green; wild flowers blossomed by the hedge-rows; the birds sang gayly of the coming summer; the white hawthorn threw its rich fragrance all around, and the yellow broom bloomed on the cliffs.
As she sat there, Lillian was indeed a fair picture herself on that May morning; the sweet, spirituelle face; the noble head with its crown of golden hair; the violet eyes, so full of thought; the sensitive lips, sweet yet firm; the white forehead, the throne of intellect.

The little fingers that moved rapidly and gracefully over the drawing were white and shapely; there was a delicate rose-leaf flush in the pretty hand.

She looked fair and tranquil as the morning itself.
The pure, sweet face had no touch of fire or passion; its serenity was all unmoved; the world had never breathed on the innocent, child-like mind.

A white lily was not more pure and stainless than the young girl who sat amid the purple heather, sketching the white, far-off sails.
So intent was Lillian upon her drawing that she did not hear light, rapid steps coming near; she was not aroused until a rich musical voice called, "Lillian, if you have not changed into stone or statue, do speak." Then, looking up, she saw Beatrice by her side.
"Lay down your pencils and talk to me," said Beatrice, imperiously.
"How unkind of you, the only human being in this place who can talk, to come here all by yourself! What do you think was to become of me ?" "I thought you were reading to mamma," said Lillian, quietly.
"Reading!" exclaimed Beatrice.

"You know I am tired of reading, tired of writing, tired of sewing, tired of everything I have to do." Lillian looked up in wonder at the beautiful, restless face.
"Do not look 'good' at me," said Beatrice, impatiently.