grandfathers, maternal and paternal; and she kept the thread of
the story with surprising distinctness, and made out the family
pedigree with amazing correctness.

"Then they are an excellent family, mamma," she said.

"To be sure they are," replied Mrs. Mervale, "one of the oldest and
best in the city."

It was wonderful what a quantity of books Angila read just about this
time; but Hazlewood was always sending her something, which she seemed
to take peculiar pleasure in surprising him by having finished before
they met again. And her bright eyes grew brighter, and occasionally,
and that not unfrequently, they had an abstracted, dreamy look, as if
her thoughts were far away, occupied in very pleasant visions--whether
they were now of Ossian-heroes, dark-eyed and dim, we doubt.

She was rather unpleasantly roused to a waking state, however, by a
passage in one of Augusta Lenox's last letters, which was,

"What has become of your 'favorite aversion,' Robert Hazlewood? When
are he and Mary Morton to be married? I give her joy of him--as you
say, how can she?"

Angila colored scarlet with indignation as she read this, almost
wondering at first what Augusta meant.

She did not answer the letter; some consciousness, mixed with a good
deal of vexation, prevented her.

Hazlewood's attentions to Angila began to be talked of a good deal.
Her mother was congratulated, and she was complimented, for every body
spoke well of him. "A remarkably clever young man with excellent
prospects," the old people said. The young girls talked of him
probably pretty much as Angila and Augusta had done--but she did not
hear that, and the young men said,

"Hazlewood was a devilish clever fellow, and that Angila Mervale would
do very well if she could get him."

That the gentleman was desperately in love there was no doubt; and as
for the young lady--that she was flattered and pleased and interested,
was hardly less clear. Her bright eyes grew softer and more dreamy
every day.

Of what was she dreaming? What could her visions be now? Can she by
any possibility make a hero of Robert Hazlewood? Sober common sense
would say "No!" but bright-eyed, youthful imagination may boldly
answer, "Why not?" Time, however, can only decide that point.

Two more letters came from Augusta Lenox about this time, and remained
unanswered. "Wait till I am engaged," Angila had unconsciously said to
herself, and then blushed the deepest blush, as she caught