you so
much credit," said the Colonel, pitying her confusion.

"Dear papa, it was cruel to betray me," said Juliet, the tears of
mortified sensibility filling her fine eyes. "Colonel Hurdlestone, you
will do me a great favor by never alluding to this subject again."

"You are a great admirer of nature, Miss Whitmore, or you could never
write poetry," said Godfrey, heedless of the distress of the poor girl.
But he was tired of sitting silent, and longed for an opportunity of
addressing her.

"Poetry is the language in which nature speaks to the heart of the
young," said Juliet. "Do you think that there ever was a young person
indifferent to the beauties of poetry?"

"All young people have not your taste and fine feeling," said Godfrey.
"There are some persons who can walk into a garden without
distinguishing the flowers from the weeds. You have of course read
Shakspeare?"

"It formed the first epoch in my life," returned Juliet with animation.
"I never shall forget the happy day when I first revelled through the
fairy isle with Ariel and his dainty spirits. My father was from home,
and had left the key in the library door. It was forbidden ground. My
aunt was engaged with an old friend in the parlor, so I ventured in, and
snatched at the first book which came to hand. It was a volume of
Shakspeare, and contained, among other plays, the Tempest and Midsummer
Night's Dream. Afraid of detection I stole away into the park, and
beneath the shadow of the greenwood tree, I devoured with rapture the
inspired pages of the great magician. What a world of wonders it opened
to my view! Since that eventful hour poetry has become to me the
language of nature--the voice in which creation lifts up its myriad
anthems to the throne of God."

An enthusiastic country girl could alone have addressed this rhapsody to
a stranger. A woman of the world with half her talent and moral worth,
would have blushed at her imprudence in betraying the romance of her
nature. Juliet was a novice in the world, and she spoke with the
simplicity and earnestness of truth. Godfrey smiled in his heart at her
want of tact; yet there was one near him, in whose breast Juliet
Whitmore would have found an echo to her own words.

The gentlemen rose to depart, and promised to dine at the Lodge the next
day.

"Two fine young men," said the Captain, turning to his daughter, as the
door closed upon his guests. "Which of them took your fancy most,
Julee?"

"T