father held one of the offices of instruction, and I used frequently to meet her in the social circles of which the families connected with the college formed the nucleus.
Her father, at this time, represented the county of Middlesex in the Congress of the United States.
Margaret was then about thirteen,—a child in years, but so precocious in her mental and physical developments, that she passed for eighteen or twenty.
Agreeably to this estimate, she had her place in society, as a lady full-grown.
When I recall her personal appearance, as it was then and for ten or twelve years subsequent to this, I have the idea of a blooming girl of a florid complexion and vigorous health, with a tendency to robustness, of which she was painfully conscious, and which, with little regard to hygienic principles, she endeavored to suppress or conceal, thereby preparing for herself much future suffering.
With no pretensions to beauty then, or at any time, her face was one that attracted, that awakened a lively interest, that made one desirous of a nearer acquaintance.
It was a face that fascinated, without satisfying.
Never seen in repose, never allowing a steady perusal of its features, it baffled every attempt to judge the character by physiognomical induction.
You saw the evidence of a mighty force, but what direction that force would assume,—whether it would determine itself to social triumphs, or to triumphs of art,—it was impossible to divine.
Her moral tendencies, her sentiments, her true and prevailing character, did not appear in the lines of her face.
She seemed equal to anything, but might not choose to put forth her strength.
You felt that a great possibility lay behind that brow, but you felt, also, that the talent