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.
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