Only in his large, gray-black eyes was there something not
of the child--something that spoke of an inheritance from
many hearts, now ashes, which had aforetime grieved and joyed,
and struggled and failed, and succeeded and grovelled.
The inarticulate cries of their longings had passed into this
child's soul, and transmuted themselves into the expression
of his music.
Felix was a beautiful child. Carmody people, who stayed at home,
thought so; and old Abel Blair, who had roamed afar in many lands,
thought so; and even the Rev. Stephen Leonard, who taught, and tried
to believe, that favour is deceitful and beauty is vain, thought so.
He was a slight lad, with sloping shoulders, a slim brown neck,
and a head set on it with stag-like grace and uplift.
His hair, cut straight across his brow and falling over his ears,
after some caprice of Janet Andrews, the minister's housekeeper,
was a glossy blue-black. the skin of his face and hands was
like ivory; his eyes were large and beautifully tinted--gray,
with dilating pupils; his features had the outlines of a cameo.
Carmody mothers considered him delicate, and had long foretold
that the minister would never bring him up; but old Abel pulled
his grizzled moustache when he heard such forebodings and smiled.
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