"
As for Madge, the memory of her has been more wakeful, but less violent.
To say nothing of occasional returns to the old homestead, when you have
met her Nelly's letters not unfrequently drop a careless half-sentence
that keeps her strangely in mind.
"Madge," she says, "is sitting by me with her work;" or, "You ought to
see the little silk purse that Madge is knitting;" or,--speaking of some
country rout,--"Madge was there in the sweetest dress you can imagine."
All this will keep Madge in mind; not, it is true, in the ambitious
moods, or in the frolics with Dalton; but in those odd half-hours that
come stealing over one at twilight, laden with sweet memories of the
days of old.
A new romantic admiration is started by those pale lady-faces which
light up on a Sunday the gallery of the college chapel. An amiable and
modest fancy gives to them all a sweet classic grace. The very
atmosphere of these courts, wakened with high metaphysic discourse,
seems to lend them a Greek beauty and fineness; and you attach to the
prettiest, that your eye can reach, all the charms of some Sciote
maiden, and all the learning of her father--the professor. And as you
lie half-wakeful and half-dreaming, through the long Divisions of the
Doctor's morning discourse, the twinkling eyes in some corner of the
gallery bear you pleasant company as you float down those streaming
visions which radiate from you far over the track of the coming life.
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