 texture of a dream.
And a very substantial stocking it seemed to be. One of the two handmaidens
hemmed a towel, and the other appeared to be making a ruffle, for her Sunday's
wear, out of a little bit of embroidered muslin, which Zenobia had probably
given her.
    It was curious to observe how trustingly, and yet how timidly, our poor
Priscilla betook herself into the shadow of Zenobia's protection. She sat beside
her on a stool, looking up, every now and then, with an expression of humble
delight at her new friend's beauty. A brilliant woman is often an object of the
devoted admiration - it might almost be termed worship, or idolatry - of some
young girl, who perhaps beholds the cynosure only at an awful distance, and has
as little hope of personal intercourse as of climbing among the stars of heaven.
We men are too gross to comprehend it. Even a woman, of mature age, despises or
laughs at such a passion. There occurred to me no mode of accounting for
Priscilla's behavior, except by supposing that she had read some of Zenobia's
stories, (as such literature goes everywhere,) or her tracts in defence of the
sex, and had come hither with the one purpose of being her slave. There is
nothing parallel to this, I believe - nothing so foolishly disinterested, and
hardly anything so beautiful - in the masculine nature, at whatever epoch of
life; or, if there be, a fine and rare development of character might reasonably
be looked for, from the youth who should prove himself capable of such
self-forgetful affection.
    Zenobia happening to change her seat, I took the opportunity, in an under
tone, to suggest some such notion as the above.
    »Since you see the young woman in so poetical a light,« replied she, in the
same tone, »you had better turn the affair into a ballad. It is a grand subject,
and worthy of supernatural machinery. The storm, the startling knock at the
door, the entrance of the sable knight Hollingsworth and this shadowy
snow-maiden, who, precisely at the stroke of midnight, shall melt away at my
feet, in a pool of ice-cold water, and give me my death with a pair of wet
slippers! And when the verses are written, and polished quite to your mind, I
will favor you with my idea as to what the girl really is.«
    »Pray let me have it now,« said I. »It shall be woven into the ballad
