through their unshed tears, upon the far-off woodlands, she spoke her story.
'Seven years ago,' she said, 'I had a friend, a dear girl, full of sincerity and affection, her maiden heart only waiting to be awakened by that love which would, when it once had come to her, never be forgotten. And alas! to her, to this girl with her quiet eyes and gentle, faithful soul, came singing one day a gay lover, a fellow full of frolic and high bright spirits, inconstant as the wind that blows upon us now. No fitting mate for her was he of all the world, and yet, beneath the sun of his glances, I saw her heart open like a flower and prepare to welcome him in. I spoke to her softly, telling her what I, who was heart-whole, could well see—what a butterfly he was, only vain to be loved, and when he had made his captures ready to fly to another flower. But she turned from me more coldly than I could have believed, and even hinted that I was jealous of his favours. But this I had never thought of, for I had turned from him from the first, even when his young eyes glanced at me and failed and glanced again and met my cool disdain. For
