hile it was the turning point--the event of her
life--"it was but an episode" in the existence of the one who
entranced her--"but a piping between the scenes." I do not think Mr.
Preston ever realized the mischief he did. He was pleased with her
appearance. Her purity and _naivete_ were delightful to him. Her ready
appreciation of the true and beautiful in nature and art, interested
him; and he sought her as a companion, because she was the most
congenial amongst those who surrounded him. He was a man of society,
and never stopped to think that the glowing, enthusiastic creature,
whose eyes gazed up so confidingly to him, as he conversed of
literature and poesy, or whose lips overflowed with earnest, eloquent
words, was an innocent, guileless child, into whose Undine nature he
had summoned the soul. He had been many years engaged, heart and hand,
to another; and circumstances alone had delayed the fulfillment of
that engagement. This Agnes knew nothing of, and surrendered herself
up, heart and soul, to him, unasked, poor girl! He regarded her as an
interesting, lovely girl, but he attributed the enthusiasm and feeling
which he unconsciously had called into birth, to the exquisite
formation of her spirit, and thought her a most superior creature. No
one marked the _affaire_ as I did, for we were surrounded by those who
knew of Mr. Preston's situation in life, and his engagement, and who,
moreover, regarded Agnes as a child in comparison to him--an unformed
woman, quite beneath the choice of one so _distingue_ as was Mr.
Preston.

Our visit drew near to a close; the evening before our departure I was
looking over some rare and beautiful engravings in the library. A gay
party were assembled in the adjoining apartments, and Mr. Preston had
been Agnes' partner during the quadrilles and voluptuous waltz. I had
lingered in the library, partly from shyness, partly from a desire to
take a farewell of my favorite haunt, and look over my pet books and
pictures, while the rich waves of melody floated around my ears. At
the close of a brilliant waltz, Mr. Preston and Agnes joined me, and I
found myself listening with as much earnestness as Agnes to the mellow
tones of his voice, while he pointed out to us beauties and defects in
the pictures, and heightened the interest we already took in them by
classical allusion or thrilling recital. If the subject of a picture
was unknown, he would throw around it the web of some fancied story,