which your dreamy humors cherish. The very glow of
pursuit heightens your fervor,--a fervor that dims sadly the new-wakened
memories of home. The southern gates of Champlain, those fir-draped
Trosachs of America, are passed, and you find yourself, upon a golden
evening of Canadian autumn, in the quaint old city of Montreal.

Dalton with his party has gone down to Quebec. He is to return within a
few days on his way to Niagara. There is a letter from Nelly awaiting
you. It says:--"Mother is much more feeble: she often speaks of your
return in a way that I am sure, if you heard, Clarence, would bring you
back to us soon."

There is a struggle in your mind: old affection is weaker than young
pride and hope. Moreover, the world is to be faced; the new scenes
around you are to be studied. An answer is penned full of kind
remembrances, and begging a few days of delay. You wander, wondering,
under the quaint old houses, and wishing for the return of Dalton.

He meets you with that happy, careless way of his,--the dangerous way
which some men are born to, and which chimes easily to every tone of the
world,--a way you wondered at once; a way you admire now; and a way that
you will distrust as you come to see more of men. Miss Dalton--(it seems
sacrilege to call her Laura)--is the same elegant being that entranced
you first.

They urge you to join their party. But there is no need of urging: those
eyes, that figure, the whole presence indeed of Miss Dalton, attract you
with a power which you can neither explain nor resist. One look of grace
enslaves you; and there is a strange pride in the enslavement.

----Is it dream, or is it earnest,--those moonlit walks upon the hills
that skirt the city, when you watch the stars, listening to her voice,
and feel the pressure of that jewelled hand upon your arm?--when you
drain your memory of its whole stock of poetic beauties to lavish upon
her ear? Is it love, or is it madness, when you catch her eye as it
beams more of eloquence than lies in all your moonlight poetry, and feel
an exultant gush of the heart that makes you proud as a man, and yet
timid as a boy, beside her?

Has Dalton, with that calm, placid, _nonchalant_ look of his, any
inkling of the raptures which his elegant sister is exciting? Has the
stout, elderly gentleman, who is so prodigal of his bouquets and
attentions, any idea of the formidable rival that he has found? Has
Laura herself--you dream--any conception of t