ions, he showed himself to be an exacting one.
Her calm, cold manner would set him frantic at times; and he would vow
she could not love him; but these lovers' quarrels instead of wearying
Effie, seemed to produce a contrary effect.

They had been engaged a year or so, when one summer a belle of the
first water made her appearance in the village-circle of Stamford.
Kate Barclay was her name. She was a Southerner, and a reputed
heiress. She had come rusticating, she said; and shrugging her pretty
shoulders, she would declare in a bewitching, languid tone, "truly a
face and figure needed rest after a brilliant winter campaign." Old
Mrs. Barclay, a dear, nice old lady in the village, was her aunt; and
as we were the only young ladies of a companionable age, Kate was, of
course, a great deal with us. She was, indeed, a delicious looking
creature. She had large, melting dark eyes, and rich curling masses of
hair, that fell in clusters over her neck and shoulders, giving her a
most romantic appearance. She understood fully all the little arts and
wiles of a belle; and she succeeded in securing admiration.
Superficial she was, but showy; and could put on at will all moods,
from the proud and dignified, to the bewitching and childlike. We had
no gentlemen visiters with us when she first came, not even Lucien;
for some engagement had taken him from Effie for a week or two, and
our pretty southern damsel almost expired with _ennui_. When we first
met with her, she talked so beautifully of the delights of a quiet
country life, seemed so enchanted with every thing and every body, and
so eloquent in praise of rambles in the forest, sunsets, moonlights,
rushing streamlets, &c., &c., that we decided she was an angel
forthwith. But one or two ramblings quite finished her--for she
complained terribly of dust, sun, and fatigue; moreover, we quite
neglected to notice or admire her picturesque rambling dress, which
inadvertency provoked her into telling us that the gentlemen at
Ballston, or some other fashionable watering-place, had declared she
looked in it quite like Robin Hood's maid Marian. The gorgeous summer
sunsets and clear moonlight nights, soon wearied her--for we were too
much occupied with the beauties of nature to notice her fine
attitudes, or beautiful eyes cast up imploringly to heaven, while she
recited, in a half theatrical manner, passages of poetry descriptive
of her imaginary feelings. I suspected she was meditating a f