and milder airs; perhaps all the more joyously for the very gloom which had preceded them.
The spring, with its abundant promise of buds and blossoms, its halcyon skies and fragrant breezes, seemed mirrored in her clear, sweet blue eyes; and summer itself—the glorious summer of our New England climate—with its compensating beauty, its myriad-hued blossoms, its gayly-plumaged and sweet-songed birds, drove her nearly wild with excitement and admiration. She fairly reveled in the universal beauty all around her: the clear, pure air; the fresh, tremulous beauty of the tender morning light, that flushed the eastern skies at newborn day; the glorious sunsets, which barred the west with floods of crimson and gold, had for her ardent and poetic nature an exhilaration she had never known before.
There was now no longer any talk of returning to Scotland; the heather and the gowans of her native hills, once so fondly remembered, had shrunk in comparison with the wide-flung blossoms of our woods and wilds; her heart was weaned from her early
