The artist had been attracted by her beauty, like so many others,
but unlike others he had not (as was the case with not a few sensible
men) given an admiring glance at the face, and then, recognizing the
fact that there was not a woman back of it, passed on indifferently;
nor had he bestowed upon her imaginary virtues; and much less had
he been satisfied with more flesh and blood.
His manner had been exploring, questioning. He was looking for
her woman's soul, even though he might find it unawakened, like
the fabled beauty in the mythical castle.
His keen eyes had disturbed her equanimity from the first. As he
pursued his quest, her undefined fears and misgivings increased.
At last she was compelled to follow his questioning glances, and
look past outward beauty to her real self within. From that hour
the rank and evil weeds of pride and vanity began to wither. Honest
self-scrutiny was like a knife at their roots.
But these traits give a transient support like a false stimulant.
As they failed there was nothing to take their place--no faith in
God, no self-respect or self-reliance. She could not turn to her
own family for sustaining sympathy, such as many fin din their
homes, and which is all the more grateful because not inquisitive
nor expressed in formal terms.
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