"Well done, Cecil," said Anna, "that is the spirit I like."

For she knew as she looked at him, that he possessed a wealth which no
money can buy, a soul full of poetry, a mind full of genius, the
elements of true greatness in any art, and the only wealth that she
valued.

And Cecil went on with his painting, and progressed, and brought more
depth of tone and beauty into his pictures with every fresh attempt,
till the canvas seemed to live under his hand, and his poetic soul and
gentle nature spoke through his art. When any difficulty presented
itself, he would always seek Anna and have her near him, not that she
was an artist, but from some cause he could paint his best when she was
by; indeed they were together the greater part of the time, for if they
began the day in their different parts of the house, by some chance they
either found each other in the library, or Lady Dorothy's walk, long
before noon. They drifted to the same place, they scarcely knew how, but
they began to know that the presence of each one to the other, was
equally essential to their happiness. Cecil was a poet, not a writer of
rhymes or jingles, but as we have said a true poet in his soul. Anna
felt this in all her intercourse with him and heard it in the tones of
his voice when he spoke, a voice that had a ring in it, a resonance, and
that exquisite power of modulation which says more than the words
themselves. And so time went swiftly and sweetly by with their walks and
rides, and occupations, until they were twenty years old. Anna happy in
the possession of Cecil's love, with life as she wished it, pure, joyous
life, with music and beauty everywhere. A song ever on her lips, the
happiest, merriest maiden in all "Merrie England."

Cecil in his gentle way, deriving extreme pleasure from the study and
exercise of his art, and Anna's companionship. For the cousinly
affection of two years ago, had in both of them merged into deep intense
love, which ended only with their lives.

CHAPTER IV.

And those were sudden partings such as press
The life from out young hearts.

* * * * *

O who wad wear a silken gown
Wi' a poor broken heart,
And what 's to me a siller crown
If from my love I part.

* * * * *

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

It was springtim