ling to
all things that surround us; and giving to external Nature the high
colouring of our own hearts, we feel how beautiful is this world.

Yet was my mind not all tranquil; for often, as I hastened on, some
passing thought would shoot across me. Where is this to end? Can I hope
ever to overcome the deep-rooted prejudices of my family, and induce
them to receive amongst them as my wife the beautiful and artless
daughter of the wild west? Or could I dare to expose her, on whom all
my affections were centred, to the callous criticism of my fine
lady-mother, and her fashionable friends in London? What right had I
to stake Louisa's happiness on such a chance--to take her from all
the objects endeared to her by taste, by time, by long-hallowed
associations, and place her amid those among whom the very charm of her
untarnished nature would have made her their inferior? Is it that trait
of rebellious spirit that would seem to leaven every portion of our
nature which makes our love strongest when some powerful barrier has
been opposed to our hopes and wishes; or is it, rather, that in the
difficulties and trials of life we discover those deeper resources of
our hearts, that under happier auspices had lain dormant and unknown?
I scarcely know; but true it is, after such reflections as these I ever
hurried on the faster to meet Louisa, more resolutely bent than ever, in
weal or woe, to link my fortune with her own.

Though I returned each night to the priest's cottage, my days were
entirely spent at Castle Bellew. How well do I remember every little
incident that marked their tranquil course! The small breakfast-parlour,
with its old Tudor window looking out upon the flower-garden--how often
have I paced it, impatient for her coming; turning ever and anon to the
opening door, where the old butler, with the invariable habitude of his
kind, continually appeared with some portion of the breakfast equipage!
How I started, as some distant door would shut or open, some far-off
footstep sound upon the stair, and wonder within myself why she felt not
some of this impatient longing! And when at last, tortured with anxiety
and disappointment, I had turned away towards the window, the gentle
step, the rustling dress, and, more than all, the indescribable
something that tells us we are near those we love, bespoke her
coming--oh, the transport of that moment! With what a fervid glow of
pleasure I sprang to meet her, to touch her hand, to