eliness
disarmed mental criticism. Theresa would regard her in unutterable
admiration, blending a sister's tenderness with all an artist's
ecstasy. There was no repaying enthusiasm; Amy's affections were not
impulsive, and she shared nothing of her sister's spontaneous,
effervescing warmth. She was, however, kind and graceful, with that
charm of manner common even in childhood to those on whom the gods
have smiled, and who, from the consciousness of beauty, possess the
certainty of pleasing. Like all visionaries, Theresa had many fancies,
and strongest among them was her boundless admiration for loveliness.
Living as she did in perpetual study of the beautiful, it appealed to
her with that enchantment it only wears for the painter and the poet;
and for her, who, in her dangerously endowed being, blended both,
there was inexpressible fascination in all that reflected externally
her radiant ideal. Gerald was a constant visiter at the cottage, and
his undisguised admiration for Theresa's gifts deepened into lasting
sentiment, what had hitherto been vague emotion. He sought her
approval, solicited her opinions, and there was a tone of romantic
reverence in his conduct toward her, which could not fail to interest
one so young and sensitive. In many respects his character was far
from equaling hers; ill-health had given peculiar fastidiousness to
his tastes, and selfishness to his temper; but he was invested with
the charms of pleasant memories, and that drapery which ever surrounds
with grace those the heart loves first. I believe he never for an
instant reflected on the effect his devoted attentions might produce,
and, absorbed in the magic of his own rapturous thoughts, he had no
time for calmer reasoning. Love is proverbially credulous; and
although neither promise nor protestation had been spoken, Theresa
never doubled what she hoped, and, perhaps, in her girlish faith,
believed his feelings the deeper from their silence.

Thus the days wended on, and I had woven in my lonely simplicity many
a bright tissue for future years to wear, when already the "cloud no
bigger than a man's hand" had gathered on my favorite's horizon.
Gerald and herself had walked one evening to the parsonage, and were
seated on one of the shaded seats in the old-fashioned garden attached
to my home.

"Theresa, you have always been to me a sympathizing listener, and I
have something to tell you now of more than ordinary interest--will
you hear me