desolation around.

One fine autumnal evening found me, as usual, in my favourite retreat.
The rays of the departing sun streamed in rich dyes through the
coloured window, and fell with softened glory on the picture of a
bridal ceremony. I was surprised that it had never before engaged my
attention. The bridegroom was young, graceful, and noble--the bride,
fair, soft, and delicate. By her side stood a form of unequalled
loveliness: it seemed too beautiful to have belonged to a daughter
of earth; and I imagined the painter had designed it to represent
the guardian saint of the youthful pair. I inquired of my ancient
conductress the history of this picture, and whether the beautiful
female was not an ideal being? "Alas!" said she, "it commemorates a
heavy day for the house of D----; on that day the last and fairest of
its race sunk the victim of unrequited affection. That is her picture;
but, oh! her soul was more angelic than her person; she"--but, reader,
let me give the story in my own words. The Lady Isabel was the last
descendant of the family of D----; her father had fallen in battle;
his lady did not long survive him; and thus, at an early age, Isabel
became an orphan. Her mother's brother was appointed her guardian,
and, with his son Albert, came to reside at the Castle. The children,
thus insulated from the world, and educated entirely at home, saw
nothing so worthy to be loved as each other, and their attachment was
as romantic as the scenes around them. They both (but particularly
Isabel) delighted in the high chivalrous legends of antiquity--and
the tales of eternal constancy and self-devoted affection recorded
of some of the earlier heroines of her family, were read with sacred
veneration by the young enthusiast. In a mind of ordinary temperament,
little harm would have resulted from the indulgence of such a taste;
to the impassioned soul of Isabel it was destructive and fatal.