their little back parlour; she was too intensely happy to wish for any thing but solitude; she felt as if she feared to wake from so delightful a dream.
Isabella loved Francis with the freshness of a sweet and child-like love, but also with a steadiness belonging to her character rather than to her years; she had delighted in his presence, she had been wretched in his absence; but it had never occurred to her that she was in love with him, still less did she think of him with reference to herself. It would have appeared to her far more probable, that if he were to prefer any, it would have been one of her sisters. I have heard it said that the gentleman's declaration should always precede the lady's attachment. This supposes a greater degree of vanity and of calculation than really do form part of feminine affection. A girl's love is half poetry, an unconscious preference till startled into self-knowledge. Isabella had been grateful for Mr. Glentworth's kindness—struck with his cultivated mind, and impressed with his distinguished appearance; so were all her sisters; but she alone was timid in expressing that admiration; in her alone had they inspired that feeling, which, shy, vague, and tender, is love. Pretty, and of a prettiness likely to improve for many years to come; lady-like, unusually clever, with a sweet temper, a warm, kind heart, wholly devoted to himself—not seventeen, Mr. Glentworth was fully justified in thinking himself the happiest of men. Whether he so considered himself or not, the following
