and waving over her shoulders; but her complexion was as dazzling white as snow in sunshine; except her cheeks, which were a bright red, and her lips, which were of a still deeper crimson.  Her mouth and chin, they said, were too large and full, and so they might be for a goddess in marble, but not for a woman whose eyes were fire, whose look was love, whose voice was the sweetest low song, whose shape was perfect symmetry, health, decision, activity, whose foot as it planted itself on the ground was firm but flexible, and whose motion, whether rapid or slow, was always perfect grace—­agile as a nymph, lofty as a queen,—­now melting, now imperious, now sarcastic—­there was no single movement of hers but was beautiful.  As he thinks of her, he who writes feels young again, and remembers a paragon.

So she came holding her dress with one fair rounded arm, and her taper before her, tripping down the stair to greet Esmond.

“She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes,” says my lord, still laughing.  “Oh, my fine mistress! is this the way you set your cap at the Captain?” She approached, shining smiles upon Esmond, who could look at nothing but her eyes.  She advanced holding forward her head, as if she would have him kiss her as he used to do when she was a child.

“Stop,” she said, “I am grown too big!  Welcome, cousin Harry,” and she made him an arch curtsy, sweeping down to the ground almost, with the most gracious bend, looking up the while with the brightest eyes and sweetest smile.  Love seemed to radiate from her.  Harry eyed her with such a rapture as the first lover is described as having by Milton.

“N’est-ce pas?” says my lady, in a low, sweet voice, still hanging on his arm.

Esmond turned round with a start and a blush, as he met his mistress’s clear eyes.  He had forgotten her, rapt in admiration of the filia pulcrior.

“Right foot forward, toe turned out, so:  now drop the curtsy, and show the red stockings, Trix.  They’ve silver clocks, Harry.  The Dowager sent ’em.  She went to put ’em on,” cries my lord.

“Hush, you stupid child!” says Miss, smothering her brother with kisses; and then she must come and kiss her mamma, looking all the while at Harry, over his mistress’s shoulder.  And if she did not kiss him, she gave him both her hands, and then took one of his in both hands, and said, “Oh, Harry, we’re so, so glad you’re come!”

“There are woodcocks for supper,” says my lord.  “Huzzay!  It was such a hungry sermon.”

“And it is the 29th of December; and our Harry has come home.”