"Swear what, Charles?"

"That the moment I see a girl more beautiful, I will cease to write to
you--I will cease to love you."

The blood instantly forsook her cheeks, and she gazed at him with wonder
and dismay.

"What, dear Charles, do you mean?"

"Oh, my pride and my treasure!" he exclaimed, wildly clasping her to
his bosom--"there is none so fair--none on earth or in heaven itself so
beautiful--that, my own ever dearest, is my meaning."

The confidence of her timid and loving heart was instantly restored--and
she said smiling, yet with a tear struggling through her eyelid, "I
believe I am I think I am beautiful. I know they call me the Fawn of
Springvale, because I am gentle."

"The angels are not so gentle, nor so pure, nor so innocent as you are,
my un-wedded wife."

"I am glad I am," she replied; "and I am glad, too, that I am
beautiful--but it is all on your account, and for your sake, dear
Charles."

The fascination--the power of such innocence, and purity, and love,
utterly overcame him, and he wept in transport upon her bosom.

The approach of her sisters, however, and the liveliness of Agnes, soon