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"Oh, it is evident," thought I, "Miss
Somerville has very little soul!"
Such were my fancies and cogitations during the day, the greater part of
which was spent in my chamber, for I was still languid. My evening was
passed in the drawing-room, where I overlooked Miss Somerville's portfolio
of sketches. They were executed with great taste, and showed a nice
observation of the peculiarities of nature. They were all her own, and free
from those cunning tints and touches of the drawing-master, by which young
ladies' drawings, like their heads, are dressed up for company. There was
no garish and vulgar trick of colors, either; all was executed with
singular truth and simplicity.
"And yet," thought I, "this little being, who has so pure an eye to take
in, as in a limpid brook, all the graceful forms and magic tints of nature,
has no soul for poetry!"
Mr. Somerville, toward the latter part of the evening, observing my eye to
wander occasionally to the harp, interpreted and met my wishes with his
accustomed civility.


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