Miss
Gertrude was about; and Devereux and Lily were such very old friends
that she left them to their devices.

'I like the river,' says he; 'it has a soul, Miss Lily, and a character.
There are no river _gods_, but nymphs. Look at that river, Miss Lilias;
what a girlish spirit. I wish she would reveal herself; I could lose my
heart to her, I believe--if, indeed, I could be in love with anything,
you know. Look at the river--is not it feminine? it's sad and it's
merry, musical and sparkling--and oh, so deep! Always changing, yet
still the same. 'Twill show you the trees, or the clouds, or yourself,
or the stars; and it's so clear and so dark, and so sunny, and--so
cold. It tells everything, and yet nothing. It's so pure, and so
playful, and so tuneful, and so coy, yet so mysterious and _fatal_.
I sometimes think, Miss Lilias, I've seen this river spirit;
and she's like--very like you!'

And so he went on; and she was more silent and more a listener than
usual. I don't know all that was passing in pretty Lilias's fancy--in
her heart--near the hum of the waters and the spell of that musical
voice. Love speaks in allegories and a language of signs; looks and
tones tell his tale most truly. So Devereux's talk held her for a while
in a sort of trance, melancholy and delightful. There must be, of
course, the affinity--the rapport--the what you please to call it--to
begin with--it matters not how faint and slender; and then the spell
steals on and grows. See how the poor little woodbine, or the jessamine,
or the vine, will lean towards the rugged elm, appointed by Virgil, in
his epic of husbandry (I mean no pun) for their natural support--the
elm, you know it hath been said, is the gentleman of the forest:--see
all the little tendrils turn his way silently, and cling, and long years
after, maybe, clothe the broken and blighted tree with a fragrance and
beauty not its own. Those feeble feminine plants, are, it sometimes
seems to me, the strength and perfection of creation--strength perfected
in weakness; the ivy, green among the snows of winter, and clasping
together in its true embrace the loveless ruin; and the vine that maketh
glad the heart of man amidst the miseries of life. I must not be
mistaken, though, for Devereux's talk was only a tender sort of
trifling, and Lilias had said nothing to encourage him to risk more; but
she now felt sure that Devereux liked her--that, indeed, he took a deep
interest in her--and someh