and when the _London Journal_ came for the first time across her way,
with the story of a broken heart, her own heart melted with sympathy; the
more sentimental and unnatural the romance, the more it fevered and
enraptured her. She loved to read of singular subterranean combats, of high
castles, prisoners, hair-breadth escapes; and her sympathies were always
with the fugitives. It was also very delightful to hear of lovers who were
true to each other in spite of a dozen wicked uncles, of women who were
tempted until their hearts died within them, and who years after threw up
their hands and said, 'Thank God that I had the courage to resist!'

The second period of her sentimental education was when she passed from the
authors who deal exclusively with knights, princesses, and kings to those
who interest themselves in the love fortunes of doctors and curates.

Amid these there was one story that interested her in particular, and
caused her deeper emotions than the others. It concerned a beautiful young
woman with a lovely oval face, who was married to a very tiresome country
doctor. This lady was in the habit of reading Byron and Shelley in a rich,
sweet-scented meadow, down by the river, which flowed dreamily through
smiling pasture-lands adorned by spreading trees. But this meadow belonged
to a squire, a young man with grand, broad shoulders, who day after day
used to watch these readings by the river without venturing to address a
word to the fair trespasser. One day, however, he was startled by a shriek:
in her poetical dreamings the lady had slipped into the water. A moment
sufficed to tear off his coat, and as he swam like a water-dog he had no
difficulty in rescuing her. Of course after this adventure he had to call
and inquire, and from henceforth his visits grew more and more frequent,
and by a strange coincidence, he used to come riding up to the hall-door
when the husband was away curing the ills of the country-folk. Hours were
passed under the trees by the river, he pleading his cause, and she