But what is germane to my purpose
must be told, and of this a part is the per- sonality of Brynhild
Ingmar. That she was beautiful I never doubted, though I have
heard it disputed and smiled inwardly as the disputants urged lip
and cheek and shades of rose and lily, weighing and appraising.
Let me describe her as I saw her or, rather, as I can, adding
that even without all this she must still have been beautiful
because of the deep significance to those who had eyes to see or
feel some mysterious element which mingled itself with her
presence comparable only to the delight which the power and
spiritual essence of Nature inspires in all but the dullest
minds. I know I cannot hope to convey this in words. It means
little if I say I thought of all quiet lovely solitary things
when I looked into her calm eyes, - that when she moved it was
like clear springs renewed by flowing, that she seemed the
perfect flowering of a day in June, for these are phrases. Does
Nature know her wonders when she shines in her strength? Does a
woman know the infinite meanings her beauty may have for the
beholder? I cannot tell.
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