As sure as my name is Jack Copley, I saw the prettiest girl in the world to-day,—an American, too, or I’m greatly mistaken. It was in the cathedral, where I have been sketching for several days. I was sitting in the end of a seat, at afternoon service, when two ladies entered by the side door. The ancient maiden, evidently the head of the family, settled herself devoutly, and the young one stole off by herself to one of the old carved seats back of the choir. She was worse than pretty! I took a sketch of her during service, as she sat under the dark carved-oak canopy, with this Latin inscription over her head:—

Carlton cum Dolby Letania IX Solidorum Super Flumina Confitebor tibi Düc Probati

Carlton cum

Dolby

Letania

IX Solidorum

Super Flumina

Confitebor tibi

Düc Probati

There ought to be a law against a woman’s making a picture of herself, unless she is willing to sit and be sketched.

A black and white sketch doesn’t give any definite idea of this charmer’s charms, but some time I’ll fill it in,—hair, sweet little hat, gown, and eyes, all in golden brown, a cape of tawny sable slipping off her arm, a knot of yellow primroses in her girdle, carved-oak background, and the afternoon sun coming through a stained-glass window. Great Jove! She had a most curious effect on me, that girl! I can’t explain it,—very curious, altogether new, and rather pleasant! When one of the choir boys sang, “Oh for the wings of a dove!” a tear rolled out of one of her lovely eyes and down her smooth brown cheek. I would have given a large portion of my modest monthly income for the felicity of wiping away that teardrop with one of my new handkerchiefs, marked with a tremendous “C” by my pretty sister.

An hour or two later they appeared again,—the dragon, who answers to the name of “aunt Celia,” and the “nut-brown mayde,” who comes when you call her “Katharine.” I was sketching a ruined arch. 

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