old-fashioned pic-nic, at which a
young friend of Squire Deerdale, who was studying for an artist, and
had just returned from Italy, where he had picked up a little music as
well as painting, should be introduced after a mysterious fashion,
which would be sure to inflame the imagination of the loveless lady.
The artist, according to the squire, was handsome as a prince and
eloquent as a minstrel, and his extensive practice in Rome had made
him perfect master of the fine arts, the art of making love included.
So the pic-nic was proposed that very evening, to take place the next
day. Hortensia, who was fond of frolick and fun as the best of them,
albeit not yet in love, fell at once into the snare; and the squire
carelessly led the conversation to turn upon the sudden and unexpected
arrival of the young Duke of St. James upon his magnificent estate
adjoining Sweetbriar Lodge, which he said had taken place that very
day.

"The duke," said the squire, "is, as you all have heard, one of the
most romantic and sentimental youths in the world, and quite out of
the way of our ordinary extravagant, matter-of-fact young nobility. I
had the pleasure of meeting him when I was in Rome, and could not help
being charmed with him. He read and wrote poetry divinely, played the
mandolin like St. Cecilia, and sung like an improvisatore. I met him
to-day, as he was approaching home in his carriage, and found him, as
well as I could judge from a five minutes' conversation, the same as
ever. I say nothing--but should a fresh-looking, golden-haired,
dreamy-eyed youth be seen at our pic-nic to-morrow, I hope he will be
greeted with the courtesy and welcome due not only to a neighbor but a
man of genius."

This adroitly concocted speech was drank in like wine by the
unsuspicious Hortensia. A duke! a poet! a romantic man of genius! What
was it made her heart beat so rapidly?--_her_ heart, that had never
beat out of time save over the page of the poet or the novelist--or
may be in the trance of some beautiful midnight dream, such as love to
hover around the pillows of fair maidens, and who can blame them?

The next morning, as Willis says of one of his fine days, was astray
from Paradise; and bright and early our pic-nickers, comprising a
goodly company of young people, married and single, with several
beautiful children, including of course the roguish Emma, were on the
field selected for the day's campaign. It was a lovely spot. Under a
nob