her taste in poetry was not the most delicate or refined; but she was so
enthusiastically fond of it, that we imagined a little training would
lead her to prefer many of Mr. Moore's ballads, to the pathos of Giles
Scroggins; and that in time, the "Shining River" might occupy a superior
place, in her estimation, to a song from which she repeated, with tears
in her eyes--,


"But like the star what lighted
Pale billion to its fated doom,
Our nuptial song is blighted,
And its rose quench'd in its bloom."


And then, she seemed so fond of flowers, and knew so much about their
treatment, that we fancied how lovely she must look while engaged in that
fascinating study; and often, in our dreaming moods, did we mutter about


"Fair Proserpine
Within the vale of Enna gathering flowers,
Herself the fairest flower."--


But why should we repeat what every one can imagine so well for himself?
At last, the hour of parting came; and, week after week, her stay at the
cottage had been prolonged, till our departure took place before hers.
And on that day she looked, as all men's sweethearts do at leaving them,
more touchingly beautiful than ever we had seen her before; and after we
had torn ourself away, we looked back, and there we saw her standing in