thought that you were to meet him anywhere, you would not go; yet, not the less is his image perpetually before you. We drive out together; half the time you do not hear a word that I say; lost in your own thoughts—thoughts which, many slight things betray, are fixed on one object. If you rouse from your reverie, you are restless and agitated; your eye wanders round in one perpetual search; and if, perchance, as has happened once or twice, he has only passed in the distance, your eye brightens, your cheek flushes crimson, and your whole frame quivers with uncontrollable emotion!"
"I did not think," whispered Ethel, "that I could have shown such weakness: you know not how I have struggled with—how I despise it!"
"Nay," replied Henrietta, "why should you struggle with a feeling which, in you, is both natural and excusable? Come, be generous, and forgive Mr. Courtenaye; it is of no use expecting romantic constancy in the present day. You do not know, and, therefore,
