My name is Isabel Strange, and I have come a little earlier, I daresay, than you expected; but I always like to see the room I'm to recite in--just to try my voice in and run over my pieces." "Certainly, of course," said Mr.Moggridge; "but you have come all the way from London and so early.

You will have some refreshment first, and if you'll honour Mrs.Moggridge and me--I may as well explain that I am the chief deacon," said Mr.Moggridge, dexterously slipping off his painter's apron and getting into his coat.

So, with a wistful glance at his work of art, Mr.Moggridge carried off the beautiful London lady to Zion View.
But was Isabel Strange beautiful?
It was a new sort of beauty if she was--or perhaps a very old sort.

Yet beautiful was the first word that had sprung into Mr.Moggridge's mind as she had surprised him in the schoolroom.

Perhaps wonderful was the exacter word, wonderful in a way that included beauty,--wonderful, and with a strange air about her that suggested exceptional refinement, exquisite sensitiveness to refined things.
"Beautiful, O dear no!" said Mrs.Moggridge, to whom feminine beauty did not appeal, as the young lady freshened herself up after her travel in Mrs.Moggridge's best bedroom.