uteously o'er her stupendous creation of power and
sublimity.

Florence gazed till the shades of evening obscured the magnificent
scene, and then, clinging to her father's arm, returned to the hotel. On
gaining her room, she tossed off her bonnet and shawl and seized her
journal.

"Are you not going to tea?" asked her father.

"No," answered she, almost sharply. "I cannot so suddenly descend to the
actual, or come in so quick contact with the grossness of earth after
the god-like sublimity I have been contemplating."

Her father called her a little enthusiast, and walked away. Left to
herself she drew forth her journal.

"Eventful day!" she wrote. "I have stood among the mists of Niagara.
Fain would I voice the tumult flood of emotions that rushed over my soul
as I gazed on its wondrous sublimity: but language is impotent, and I am
weak,--weaker than usual; I think from reaction of my overstrained
powers.

"I could lie down and weep like a tired child. The tremendous roar of
the mighty waters is in my ear as I write. O, Niagara, Niagara! what
henceforth will be to me the brightest scene our country can afford--for
I have looked on thee, and what is left me now?"

She closed her book, and, stepping out on the piazza, leaned her arms
over the balustrade, and stood with her gaze riveted on the boiling
cataracts, now flashing like sheets of burnished silver in the soft
moonlight. While she was thus occupied a young lady approached and
accosted her.

"You are just arrived at the Falls, I fancy," said she, with a pleasant
smile.

"I arrived to-day," answered Florence, politely.

"You do not know me," remarked the young lady; "but I think I have seen
you before."

Florence gazed on the eloquent features, but she did not detect a
resemblance to any person she had ever known.

"You have the advantage of me," she said; "I do not recollect you."

"Probably not," returned the young lady; "but did you never reside in a
village called Wimbledon, at a beautiful mansion styled 'Summer House?'"

"I have just come from there," said Florence, gazing with surprise in
the face of her fair interrogator.

"So I thought," remarked the young lady, "and your name, excuse my
boldness, is Florence Howard. Mine is Ellen Williams. I once resided in
Wimbledon, and saw you several times at the village church. You,
probably, did not notice me, or, if you did, my features would be easily
forgotten. Not so yours. I recognized you the