Isabel
remembered perfectly the neat little male child whose hair smelt of
a delicious cosmetic and who had a bonne all his own, warranted to
lose sight of him under no provocation. Isabel took a walk with the
pair beside the lake and thought little Edward as pretty as an
angel- a comparison by no means conventional in her mind, for she
had a very definite conception of a type of features which she
supposed to be angelic and which her new friend perfectly illustrated.
A small pink face surmounted by a blue velvet bonnet and set off by
a stiff embroidered collar had become the countenance of her
childish dreams; and she had firmly believed for some time
afterwards that the heavenly hosts conversed among themselves in a
queer little dialect of French-English, expressing the properest
sentiments, as when Edward told her that he was "defended" by his
bonne to go near the edge of the lake, and that one must always obey
to one's bonne. Ned Rosier's English had improved; at least it
exhibited in a less degree the French variation. His father was dead
and his bonne dismissed, but the young man still conformed to the
spirit of their teaching- he never went to the edge of the lake.
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