sombre were the shadows cast by its flickering blaze! Early they
separated, each with a strange pressure on the feelings, and a deep
disquietude of heart.

Most of the succeeding day Fanny kept apart from the family;
spending a greater portion of the time alone in her room. Once or
twice it crossed the mother's thought, that Fanny might be tempted
to answer the letter of Mr. Lyon, notwithstanding her promise not to
do so for the present. But she repelled the thought instantly, as
unjust to her beautiful, loving, obedient child. Still, Fanny's
seclusion of herself weighed on her mind, and led her several times
to go into her room. Nothing, either in her manner or employment,
gave the least confirmation to the vague fear which had haunted her.

The sun was nearly two hours above the horizon, when Fanny left the
house, and bent her steps towards a pleasant grove of trees that
stood some distance away. In the midst of the grove, which was not
far from the entrance-gate to her father's beautiful grounds, was a
summer-house, in Oriental style, close beside an ornamental
fountain. This was the favourite resort of the maiden, and thither
she now retired, feeling certain of complete seclusion, to lose
herself in the bewildering mazes of love's young dream. Before the
eyes of her mind, one form stood visible, and that a form of manly
grace and beauty,--the very embodiment of all human excellence. The
disparaging words of her aunt had, like friction upon a polished
surface, only made brighter to her vision the form which the other
had sought to blacken. What a new existence seemed opening before
her, with new and higher capacities for enjoyment! The half-closed
bud had suddenly unfolded itself in the summer air, and every
blushing petal thrilled with a more exquisite sense of life.

Every aspect of nature--and all her aspects were beautiful
there--had a new charm for the eyes of Fanny Markland. The silvery
waters cast upward by the fountain fell back in rainbow showers,
ruffling the tiny lake beneath, and filling the air with a low,
dreamy murmur. Never had that lovely creation of art, blending with
nature, looked so like an ideal thing as now--a very growth of
fairy-land. The play of the waters in the air was as the glad
motions of a living form.

Around this fountain was a rosary of white and red roses, encircled
again by arbor-vitae; and there were statues of choice workmanship,
the ideals of modern art, lifting their pur