of the exterior formula. "You've addressed it to Clare herself."

That was plain to see.

"Emmeline Clementina Matilda Laura, Countess Blandish," Richard continued
in a low tone, transferring the names, and playing on the musical strings
they were to him. Then he said: "Names of ladies! How they sweeten
their names!"

He fixed his eyes on Ralph. If he discovered anything further he said
nothing, but bade the good fellow good-bye, jumped into his boat, and
pulled down the tide. The moment Ralph was hidden by an abutment of the
banks, Richard perused the address. For the first time it struck him
that his cousin Clare was a very charming creature: he remembered the
look of her eyes, and especially the last reproachful glance she gave him
at parting. What business had Ralph to write to her? Did she not belong
to Richard Feverel? He read the words again and again: Clare Doria
Forey. Why, Clare was the name he liked best--nay, he loved it. Doria,
too--she shared his own name with him. Away went his heart, not at a
canter now, at a gallop, as one who sights the quarry. He felt too weak
to pull. Clare Doria Forey--oh, perfect melody! Sliding with the tide,
he heard it fluting in the bosom of the hills.

When nature has made us ripe for love, it seldom occurs that the Fates
are behindhand in furnishing a temple for the flame.

Above green-flashing plunges of a weir, and shaken by the thunder below,
lilies, golden and white, were swaying at anchor among the reeds.
Meadow-sweet hung from the banks thick with weed and trailing bramble,
and there also hung a daughter of earth. Her face was shaded by a broad