ass beneath, and the blue illimitable heavens smiling above. I had
come out of darkness into marvellous light. I was drenched with light as
I had previously been by the cold, gray mist. I remembered another verse
of the immortal poem I had learned from the lips of Ernest:--

"Happy they, whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice,
The air and the sky that to mortals are given;
May the horror below never more find a voice,
Nor man stretch too far the wide mercy of heaven.
Never more, never more may he lift from the sight
The veil which is woven with terror and night."

CHAPTER XLV.

Amid the rainbows of the cataract, Edith's heart caught the first
glowing tinge of romance.

We were wandering along the path that zones the beautiful island, whose
name, unpoetic as it is, recalls one of the brilliant constellations of
the zodiac; and Edith had seated herself on a rustic bench, under the
massy dome of a spreading beech, and, taking off her bonnet, suffered
her hair to float according to its own wild will on the rising breeze.

She did not observe a young man at a little distance, leaning back
against an aged birch, on whose silvery bark the dark outlines of his
figure were finely daguerreotyped. He was the beau ideal of an artist,
with his long brown hair carelessly pushed back from his white temples,
his portfolio in his left hand, his pencil in his right, and his dark,
restless eyes glancing round him with the fervor of enthusiasm, while
they beamed with the inspiration of genius. He was evidently sketching
the scene, which with bold, rapid lines he was transferring to the
paper. All at once his gaze was fixed on Edith, and he seemed
spellbound. I did not wonder,--for a lovelier, more ethereal object
never arrested the glance of admiration. Again his pencil moved, and I
knew he was attempting to delineate her features. I was fearful lest she
should move and dissolve the charm; but she sat as still as the tree,
whose gray trunk formed an artistic background to her slight figure.

As soon as Ernest perceived the occupation of the young artist, he made
a motion towards Edith, but I laid my hand on his arm.

"Do not," I said; "she will make such a beautiful picture."

"I do not like that a stranger should take so great a liberty," he
replied, in an accent of displeasure.

"Forgive the artist," I pleaded, "for the sake of the temptation."

The young man, perceiving that he was observed