looking down into them, as they reflected back his own image. He
could not love himself without harm to himself, but he could gaze
on, and love to gaze for ever upon the image of himself pictured in
those dear eyes, and yet be innocent.

"Love you, Ellen? How can she help loving you?"

"I do not know why any one should love me," was the artless reply.

"I do not know how any one can help loving you."

"Ah, you may think so, but every one does not see with your eyes;
and maybe, you are only blinded. I am not perfect, Charles; don't
forget that."

"You are perfect to me, and that is all I ask. But say, Ellen, dear,
sha'n't we be married in a month?"

"I am so young, Charles; and then I ought to be certain that your
mother is willing. Does she know all about it? You have written to
her, have you not?"

The young man did not reply for some moments. Then he said--"Never
fear, Ellen; my mother will love you as her own child, when she sees
and knows you. I have not written about you to her, because, as I
must tell you, my mother, though one of the best of women, is a
little proud of her standing in society. The moment I write to her
on the subject, she will have a dozen grave questions to ask about
your family, and whether they are connected with this great
personage or that--questions that I despair of answering, in a