elling of the whole form, the almost fairy lightness of
the full, swelling, but small foot, about which nothing seemed lean
and attenuated, the exquisite hand that appeared from among the
ruffles of the dress, Paul stood longest in nearly breathless
admiration of the countenance of his "bright and blooming bride."
Perhaps there is no sentiment so touchingly endearing to a man, as
that which comes over him as he contemplates the beauty, confiding
faith, holy purity and truth that shine in the countenance of a
young, unpractised, innocent woman, when she has so far overcome her
natural timidity as to pour out her tenderness in his behalf, and to
submit to the strongest impulses of her nature. Such was now the fact
with Eve. She was writing of her husband, and, though her expressions
were restrained by taste and education, they partook of her
unutterable fondness and devotion. The tears stood in her eyes, the
pen trembled in her hand, and she shaded her face as if to conceal
the weakness from herself. Paul was alarmed, he knew not why, but Eve
in tears was a sight painful to him. In a moment he was at her side,
with an arm placed gently around her waist, and he drew her fondly
towards his bosom.

"Eve--dearest Eve!" he said--"what mean these tears?"

The serene eye, the radiant blush, and the meek tenderness that
rewarded his own burst of feeling, reassured the young husband, and,
deferring to the sensitive modesty of so young a bride, he released
hold, retaining only a hand.

"It is happiness, Powis--nothing but excess of happiness, which makes
us women weaker, I fear, than even sorrow."

Paul kissed her hands, regarded her with an intensity of admiration,
before which the eyes of Eve rose and fell, as if dazzled while
meeting his looks, and yet unwilling to lose them; and then he
reverted to the motive which had brought him to the library.

"My father--_your_ father, that is now--"

"Cousin Jack!"

"Cousin Jack, if you will, has just made me a present, which is
second only to the greater gift I received from your own excellent
parent, yesterday, at the altar. See, dearest Eve, he has bestowed
this lovely image of yourself on me; lovely, though still so far from
the truth. And here is the miniature of my poor mother, also, to
supply the place of the one carried away by the Arabs."

Eve gazed long and wistfully at the beautiful features of this image
of her husband's mother. She traced in them that pensive though