g, when the overcharged rivers, bursting their
boundaries and overflowing the neighboring lowlands, sometimes
occasion great damage to property, sweeping away bridges, and mills,
and dams, with irresistible violence.

The roaring of the Falls had been long distinguishable, but, it was
not until the first curve in the road had been turned, that they came
into sight."

"Look! Faith," cried Bernard, as they burst into view; "did you ever
see them more magnificent?"

The attention of the young lady had been, hitherto, too much engrossed
by the necessity of watching her footsteps down the descent, to give
much heed to surrounding objects; but, now, she looked up, having
reached the comparatively level spot, which extended as far as
the second hill or rising ground above mentioned, and felt all the
admiration expressed by her companion.

"They are grand," she replied. "I have beheld this view a thousand
times, and never weary of its beauty. I do not know whether I love it
more in summer or in winter."

"How would you express the difference of your feelings, then and now?"

"I am afraid I have not the skill to put the feeling into words. But,
the impression, on a day like this, is of a magnificence and splendor
unusual to the earth. In summer, the beauty though less astonishing,
is of a softer character."

"You would rather listen to the song of the robin, and of our northern
mocking-bird, than to the roaring of the angry river?"

"There is no anger in the sound, William," she replied, looking up
into his face; "It is the shout of praise to its Creator, and the
dashing of the torrents over the rocks are the clapping of its hands."

"You are right, Faith. How much better you are tuned to the meanings
of nature than I?"

"You do yourself injustice. It was your love of all this beauty that
induced you to invite me to this walk. Without you I should have
missed it, nor known what I had lost."

William Bernard sighed. She has not, he thought, the least suspicion
that I love her. She does not know, and would not care if she did,
that, by her side, the only prospect I behold is herself, and the
invitation to this stroll but a pretext to approach her.

"Your presence, dear Faith," said he, "imparts a double charm to the
scenery."

"It is sweet," she answered, leaning, as it seemed to him, at the
moment, more affectionately on his arm, "to have one to whom we can
say, how lovely is all this loveliness."

"The sentime