such poetry as she knows will please me; and
in one of her letters, Cousin Anthony, she wrote a good deal about you."

"About me!--Oh, tell me, Clary, what she said about me."

"She said," replied the child, blushing very deeply, and speaking so low
that Anthony could only just catch the words, "that she loved you. That
you were the only man she had ever seen that realized her dreams of what
man ought to be. And what she said of you made me love you too, and I
felt proud that you were my cousin."

"Dear amiable Clary," and the delighted Anthony unconsciously covered
the delicate white hand held within his own with passionate kisses.

"You must not take me for Juliet," and Clary quietly withdrew her hand.
"But I am so glad that you love her, because we shall be able to talk
about her. I have a small portfolio she gave me, full of pretty poems,
which I will give to you, for I know all the poems by heart."

Anthony no longer heard her. He was wrapt up in a blissful dream, from
which he was in no hurry to awaken. Many voices spake to his soul, but
over all, he heard one soft deep voice, whose tones pierced its utmost
recesses, and infused new life and hope into his breast, which
said--"Juliet loves you.'"

CHAPTER XV.

She hath forsaken God and trusted man,
And the dark curse by man inherited
Hath fallen upon her.--S.M.

We must now return to Godfrey Hurdlestone, and we find him comfortably
settled in the hospitable mansion of Captain Whitmore, a great favorite
with aunt Dorothy, and an object of increasing interest and sympathy to
the fair Juliet.

Had she forgotten Anthony? Oh, no. She still loved him, but dared not
whisper to her own heart the forbidden fact. Did she believe him guilty?
Not exactly. But the whole affair was involved in mystery, and she had
not confidence enough in her own judgment to overrule the prejudices of
others. She could not pronounce him innocent, and she strove to banish
his image as a matter of necessity--a sacrifice that duty demanded of
her--from her mind.

Could she receive with pleasure the attentions of such a man as Godfrey
Hurdlestone? She did, for he was so like Anthony, that there were times
when she could almost have fancied them one and the same. He wanted the
deep feeling--the tenderness--the delicacy of her absent lover, but he
had wit, beauty, and vivacity, an imposing manner, and that easy
assurance which to most women is more attractive than modes