made. The expression of the face was rapt, spiritual, poetic. I never saw such eyes.
Perhaps she saw with pleasure the admiration which she inspired in my youthful heart, for she was very kind to me, and showed me her work, smiling. She did fancy-work beautifully (japanning, I believe, it is called), painting flowers in gold-leaf on a black ground. She used to ornament tables, clocks, desks, chairs, and other pieces in this manner with exquisite taste. I saw on her table a box, which looked like a great Bible, and it had painted on it, by her, these words:
"THE GOLDEN LEGEND
"Here lies within this golden legend fair
Of love and life the noble mystery.
Life sullies not its lily pages fair,
Death writes no Finis to its history."
"These are James's letters," she said, giving me one of her rare smiles. She always smiled when she spoke of him.
I saw much of this courtship, destined one day to be the property of the world, from the distinction which both lovers won by their talents.
All courtships are beautiful, or should be. This one had every element of beauty. Mr. Lowell was singularly handsome in his young manhood. Paige painted him when he was a Titian young man with reddish beard and affluent curling hair, deep-blue eyes, and a ruddy cheek. Afterwards, when he was Minister to England, I spoke to him of that portrait and those days. "You see," said he, "I didn't grow old handsomely." Nor did he. The trials of his life, and they were many, had marked his face and marred his color-
