to my lady, when he visited her during her convalescence, that the malady had not in the least impaired her charms, and had not been churl enough to injure the fair features of the Viscountess of Castlewood; whereas, in spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought that her ladyship’s beauty was very much injured by the small-pox.  When the marks of the disease cleared away, they did not, it is true, leave furrows or scars on her face (except one, perhaps, on her forehead over her left eyebrow); but the delicacy of her rosy color and complexion was gone:  her eyes had lost their brilliancy, her hair fell, and her face looked older.  It was as if a coarse hand had rubbed off the delicate tints of that sweet picture, and brought it, as one has seen unskilful painting-cleaners do, to the dead color.  Also, it must be owned, that for a year or two after the malady, her ladyship’s nose was swollen and redder.

There would be no need to mention these trivialities, but that they actually influenced many lives, as trifles will in the world, where a gnat often plays a greater part than an elephant, and a mole-hill, as we know in King William’s case, can upset an empire.  When Tusher in his courtly way (at which Harry Esmond always chafed and spoke scornfully) vowed and protested that my lady’s face was none the worse—­the lad broke out and said, “It is worse and my mistress is not near so handsome as she was;” on which poor Lady Castlewood gave a rueful smile, and a look into a little Venice glass she had, which showed her, I suppose, that what the stupid boy said was only too true, for she turned away from the glass, and her eyes filled with tears.

The sight of these in Esmond’s heart always created a sort of rage of pity, and seeing them on the face of the lady whom he loved best, the young blunderer sank down on his knees, and besought her to pardon him, saying that he was a fool and an idiot, that he was a brute to make such a speech, he who had caused her malady; and Doctor Tusher told him that a bear he was indeed, and a bear he would remain, at which speech poor young Esmond was so dumbstricken that he did not even growl.

“He is my bear, and I will not have him baited, Doctor,” my lady said, patting her hand kindly on the boy’s head, as he was still kneeling at her feet.  “How your hair has come off!  And mine, too,” she added with another sigh.

“It is not for myself that I cared,” my lady said to Harry, when the parson had taken his leave; “but am I very much changed?  Alas!  I fear ’tis too true.”

“Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in the world, I think,” the lad said; and indeed he thought and thinks so.

“Will my lord think so when he comes back?” the lady asked with a sigh, and another look at her Venice glass.  “Suppose he should think as you do, sir, that I am hideous—­yes, you said hideous—­he will cease to care for me.  ’Tis all men care for in women, our little beauty.  Why did he select me from among my sisters?  ’Twas only for that.  We reign but for a day or two:  and be sure that Vashti knew Esther was coming.”