CHAPTER IX.
Louisa Granard was seated in her own room, writing what the size of the paper implied was a small note—not so, if it was to be judged by the length of time which the note took writing. Yet the employment seemed a pleasant one; her cheek was flushed with a clear, rich crimson—her face
"Was like any fair lake that the morning is on,
When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun."
And if, ever and anon, the brow was clouded by a shade of pensiveness, it was quickly dispelled by the consciousness of present happiness. A letter was open beside her, to whose contents it seemed necessary often to refer; but, when once taken up to read, it was not easily laid down again; and the fair student seemed to dwell on every word, and find out a new meaning each time. The fact was, Louisa Granard was answering a love-letter. Few there are whose hearts have not beat with delicious quickness at sight of a handwriting dearer than aught else in the world besides.
The first love-letter is an epoch in love's happy season—it makes assurance doubly sure—that which has hitherto, perhaps, only found utterance in sweet and
