Althea was now nearly sixteen; she had emerged from the somewhat unpromising age, and had developed into remarkable beauty. Distinguished as were all the St. Legers for fine personal appearance, none had ever equalled this child of Della, given to God with that mother's expiring breath.
With the beauty of her father, she possessed the winning gracefulness of her mother, with the best mental and moral qualities of both. As a scholar, she excelled in all her classes; she had a real genius for music, poetry, and painting. With trifling effort she could execute most difficult pieces upon piano and harp.
"You have the hand of a master," spake Signor Lanza proudly, to this his favorite pupil.
"Il improvisatrice," was she styled by her admiring associates, whom she amused by the hour with her extemporary effusions of rhyme.
From all, you would have taken her to be from that land
"Where the poet's lip and painter's hand Are most divine. Where earth and sky Are picture both and poetry; Of Italy--"
A Madame de Stael would have immortalized her as another Corrinne.
_Heu, me miserum!_ Where shall we find goose-quill cruel and grey enough to write her down wife of Jude Thornton Rush?
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Have you forgotten, dear reader, that September night after Ellice's funeral? How Duncan Lisle sat alone with Hubert, his child, before the bright fire, while the rain pattered against the pane, and the memory of the widowed man broke up into such a shower of reminiscences as almost, for the moment, to drown the fire of his grief? Do you remember that Philip St. Leger, returned from the East, came abruptly upon the scene, telling of Della's death, and the little child left at the North? Well, was it not natural for us to think that Hubert and Althea, children of Della and Ellice, the "Pythias and Damon" friends, should grow up and love each other, and marry at last, as they do in novels?
Yes, that was our pet scheme, indulged in to the last. But we are compelled to admit with the poet, that "best laid plans go oft astray." We are also compelled to think half wickedly with Amy--what pity it was Jude Rush fell down a precipice breaking his neck, thus giving his wife liberty to capture her own good master--and what pity it was too that Jude Thornton Rush did _not_ fall down some precipice and did _not_ break his neck before, spider-like, he had woven his fine web, and said softly to Della's daughter: