rest earthly temple is a woman's heart.

CHAPTER XIV.

Yet, spite of all that Nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dared to love.
* * * * * *
But virtue can itself advance
To what the favourite fools of chance
By fortune seem design'd.

PARNELL.

"Is your sweet lady out yet, pretty Barbara?" inquired Robin Hays of
Barbara Iverk, as he met her in the flower-garden of Cecil Place, when
it was nearly midday.

"My poor lady is, I am sure, very ill; or, what is still worse, ill at
ease," replied the maiden. "She has not been in bed all night, I know,
for the couch was undisturbed this morning, so I just came here to
gather her some flowers: fresh flowers must always do one good, and I
think I never saw so many in bloom so early."

"Barbara, did you ever hear tell of a country they call the East?"

"A country!" repeated Barbara, whose knowledge of geography was somewhat
more extensive than that of Robin, although she had not travelled so
much, "I believe there are many countries in the East."

"Well, I dare say there may be. Mistress Barbara: you are going to chop
scholarship with me; but yet, I suppose, you do not know that they have
in that country a new way of making love. It is not new to them, though
it is new to us."

"Oh, dear Robin! what is it?"

"Why, suppose they wished you, a young pretty maiden as you are, to
understand that I, a small deformed dragon, regarded you, only a little,
like the beginning of love, they would--" Robin stooped as he spoke, and
plucked a rose-bud that had anticipated summer--"they would give you
this bud. But, suppose they wanted you to believe I loved you very much
indeed, they would choose you out a full-blown rose. Barbara, I cannot
find a full-blown rose; but I do not love you the less for that."

"Give me the bud, Robin, whether or no; it is the first of the
season:--my lady will be delighted with it--if, indeed, any thing can
delight her!"

"I will give it you to keep; not to give away, even to your lady. Ah,
Barbara! if I had any thing worth giving, you would not refuse it."

"And can any thing be better worth giving, or having, than sweet
flowers?" said the simple girl. "Only it pains me to pull them--they die
so soon--and then, every leaf that falls away from them, looks like a
reproach!"

"Should you be sorry if I were to die one of these days, Barbara,"
inquired the Ranger