"In this first garden of their simpleness
They spent their childhood."

A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered the
nature of their attachment.

Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de Roubignè"--a book
which young Clare had lent her.

Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown round
her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage in Julia's
third letter.

"Maria! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have sometimes painted
to myself a _husband_--no matter whom--comforting me amidst the
distresses which fortune had laid upon us. I have smiled upon him
through my tears; tears, not of anguish, but of tenderness!--our
children were playing around us, unconscious of misfortune; we had
taught them to be humble, and to be happy; our little shed was
reserved to us, and their smiles to cheer it.--I have imagined the
luxury of such a scene, and affliction became a part of my dream of
happiness."

The girl blushed as she read, and trembled--she had a sort of
confused sensation, that Allan was noticing her--yet she durst not
lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading, scarce knowing
what she read.

Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, Allan trembled too--his