ect of this argument was the
possibility of pride overcoming love in a woman's heart. Mrs. Morris
and I contended that love weakened or quite died out if the object
proved unworthy or indifferent. Our romantic Effie of course took the
opposite side. True love to her mind was unalterable. Falsehood,
deceit, change--no matter what sorrow, she said, might afflict the
pure loving heart--its love would still remain. "I cannot," she
exclaimed enthusiastically, "imagine for an instant that true, genuine
love should--could have any affinity with pride. When I see a woman
giving evidence of what is called high spirit in love matters, I
straightway lose all sympathy for her heart-troubles. I say to
myself--she has never truly loved."

We argued, but in vain; at length her mother laughingly cried
out--"Nonsense, Effie, no one would sooner resent neglect from a
lover than yourself. True love, as you call it, would never make such
a spiritless, meek creature out of the material of which you are
composed."

"Yes, in truth," I added, as I saw our pretty enthusiast, half vexed,
shake her head obstinately at her mother's prophecy--"I can see those
soft eyes of yours, Effie, darling, flash most eloquent fire, should
your true love meet with unworthiness."

During our conversation the clouds had broken, the wind changed, and a
delicious breeze came sweeping in at the windows as if to cool our
cheeks, flushed with the playful argument.

"Will you ride or walk this morning, girls?" asked Mrs. Morris, as we
arose from the breakfast-table.

"Oh, let us take our books, guitar and work up the mill-stream to the
old oak, dear mamma," exclaimed Effie, "and spend an hour or two
there."

"But it will be mid-day when we return," replied her mother.

"That's true," said Effie, laughing, "but Leven can drive up to the
old broken bridge for us at mid-day."

"To be sure he can," said Mrs. Morris, and accordingly we sallied
forth, laden with books and netting, while a servant trudged on ahead,
with camp-stools and guitar. Nothing eventful occurred on that
particular morning, and yet though years have passed since then, I
never recall the undulating scenery of the narrow, dark, winding
mill-stream of Stamford, but it presents itself to my mind's eye as it
looked on that morning. In my waking or sleeping dreams, I see the old
oak at the morning hours, and whenever the happy moments I have spent
at Effie Morris' country home come to my memory, th