ried, and probably—I might say almost certainly—will be again.' 'You are mistaken there Ma'am,' said she, almost haughtily; 'I am certain I never shall.'—But I told her I knew better."
"Some romantic young widow, I suppose," said I, "come there to end her days in solitude, and mourn in secret for the dear departed—but it won't last long."
"No, I think not," observed Rose; "for she didn't seem very disconsolate after all; and she's excessively pretty—handsome rather—you must see her Gilbert; you will call her a perfect beauty, though you could hardly pretend to discover a resemblance between her and Eliza Millward."
"Well, I can imagine many faces more beautiful than Eliza's, though not more charming. I allow she has small claims to perfection; but then, I maintain that, if she were more perfect, she would be less interesting."
