remarkable aptitude.

Coleridge's poems had been read long ago; some of them, indeed,
almost committed to memory in the process of repeated perusal. No
doubt a good many of them must have been as yet too abstruse for
her; not in the least, however, from inaptitude in her for such
subjects as they treated of, but simply because neither the terms
nor the modes of thought could possibly have been as yet presented
to her in so many different positions as to enable her to comprehend
their scope. Hugh lent her Sir Walter's poems next, but those she
read at an eye-glance. She returned the volume in a week, saying
merely, they were "verra bonnie stories." He saw at once that, to
have done them justice with the girl, he ought to have lent them
first. But that could not be helped now; and what should come next?
Upon this he took thought. His library was too small to cause much
perplexity of choice, but for a few days he continued undecided.

Meantime the interest he felt in his girl-pupil deepened greatly.
She became a kind of study to him. The expression of her
countenance was far inferior to her intelligence and power of
thought. It was still to excess--almost dull in ordinary; not from
any fault in the mould of the features, except, perhaps, in the
upper lip, which seemed deficient in drawing, if I may be allowed
the expression; but from the absence of that light which indicates
the presence of active thought and feeling within. In this respect
her face was like the earthen pitcher of Gideon: it concealed the
light. She seemed to have, to a peculiar degree, the faculty of
retiring inside. But now and then, while he was talking to her, and
doubtful, from the lack of expression, whether she was even
listening with attention to what he was saying, her face would