ignorance. The fear of its loss can alone teach us the true value of our
treasure. But the discovery was at hand.

A pleasant spring afternoon in April found the two young people, Ralph
and Edith--the former now twenty years of age, and the latter in the
same neighborhood, half busied, half idle, in the long and spacious
piazza of the family mansion. They could not be said to have been
employed, for Edith rarely made much progress with the embroidering
needle and delicate fabric in her hands, while Ralph, something more
absorbed in a romance of the day, evidently exercised little
concentration of mind in scanning its contents. He skimmed, at first,
rather than studied, the pages before him; conversing occasionally with
the young maiden, who, sitting beside him, occasionally glanced at the
volume in his hand, with something of an air of discontent that it
should take even so much of his regard from herself. As he proceeded,
however, in its perusal, the story grew upon him, and he became
unconscious of her occasional efforts to control his attention. The
needle of Edith seemed also disposed to avail itself of the aberrations
of its mistress, and to rise in rebellion; and, having pricked her
finger more than once in the effort to proceed with her work while her
eyes wandered to her companion, she at length threw down the gauzy
fabric upon which she had been so partially employed, and hastily rising
from her seat, passed into the adjoining apartment.

Her departure was not attended to by her companion, who for a time
continued his perusal of the book. No great while, however, elapsed,
when, rising also from his seat with a hasty exclamation of surprise, he
threw down the volume and followed her into the room where she sat
pensively meditating over thoughts and feelings as vague and inscrutable
to her mind, as they were clear and familiar to her heart. With a degree