No one answered, except by the indulgent smile that usually greeted
her sallies, howeve? absurd, among those accustomed to the spoiled
child's vagaries.

Mabel was making some leisurely additions to her bouquet in the
shape of ribbon grass and pendent ivy sprays, coaxing these with
persuasive touches to trail over the edge and entwine the pedestal
of the salver on which her bowl was elevated; her head set slightly
on one side, her lips apart in a smile of enjoyment in her work and
in herself. It was a picture the lover studied fondly--one that hung
forever thereafter in his gallery of mental portraits. Beyond a pair
of fine gray eyes, the pliant grace of her figure and the buoyant
carriage of youth, health, and a glad heart, Mabel's pretensions to
beauty were comparatively few, said the world. Frederic Chilton had,
nevertheless, fallen in love with her at sight, and considered her,
now, the handsomest woman of his acquaintance. Her dress was a
simple lawn--a sheer white fabric, with bunches of purple grass
bound up with yellow wheat, scattered over it; her hair was lustrous
and abundant, and her face, besides being happy, was frank and
intelligent, with wonderful mobility of expression. In temperament
and sentiment; in capacity for, and in demonstration of affection,
she suited Frederic to the finest fibre of his mind and heart. He,
for one, did not carp at Aunt Rachel's declaration that they were
intended to spend time and eternity together.

Still, Mabel Aylett was not a belle, and Rosa Tazewell was. Callow
collegians and enterprising young merchants from the city;
sunbrowned owners of spreading acres and hosts of laborers; students
and practitioners of law and medicine, and an occasional theologue,
had broken their hearts for perhaps a month at a time, for love of