"Fair as the trembling snow whose fleeces clothe
Our Alpine hills; sweet as the rose's spirit
Or violet's cheek, on which the morning leaves
A tear at parting."
The least cause sent the blush to the cheek, and the laughter to the lip; for Ethel was guileless as she was gay.
The darling, like Henrietta, of an aged relative, their training had been widely different. Half Ethel's life had been spent in the flower-garden; and it was as if the sweetness and joyousness of the summer's sunny children had infused themselves into the being of their youthful companion. The open air had given strength to an originally delicate frame, and cheerfulness to her mind. She had read little beyond her grandmother's cherished volumes, of which a herbal was the study, and the Cassandra of Madame Scudori the recreation. Out of these stately impossibilities, she had constructed an existence of her own, full of love, courage, and fidelity: all highly pictuesque and highly false. No matter—the truth comes only too soon.
And so, when Norbourne Courtenaye, a distant connexion of the family, arrived in a course of
