th, and the green of the
centenarian is as vivid in the beams of May as that of the sapling by
its side. "Mine shall be your spring, but not your winter!" exclaimed
the aspirant.

Wrapped in these sanguine and joyous reveries, Glyndon, quitting the
woods, found himself amidst cultivated fields and vineyards to which his
footstep had not before wandered; and there stood, by the skirts of a
green lane that reminded him of verdant England, a modest house,--half
cottage, half farm. The door was open, and he saw a girl at work with
her distaff. She looked up, uttered a slight cry, and, tripping gayly
into the lane to his side, he recognised the dark-eyed Fillide.

"Hist!" she said, archly putting her finger to her lip; "do not speak
loud,--my mother is asleep within; and I knew you would come to see me.
It is kind!"

Glyndon, with a little embarrassment, accepted the compliment to his
kindness, which he did not exactly deserve. "You have thought, then, of
me, fair Fillide?"

"Yes," answered the girl, colouring, but with that frank, bold
ingenuousness, which characterises the females of Italy, especially
of the lower class, and in the southern provinces,--"oh, yes! I have
thought of little else. Paolo said he knew you would visit me."

"And what relation is Paolo to you?"

"None; but a good friend to us all. My brother is one of his band."

"One of his band!--a robber?"

"We of the mountains do not call a mountaineer 'a robber,' signor."

"I ask pardon. Do you not tremble sometimes for your brother's life? The
law--"

"Law never ventures into these defiles. Tremble for him! No. My father
and grandsire were of the same calling. I often wish I were a man!"

"By these lips, I am enchanted that your wish cannot be realised."

"Fie, signor! And do you really love me?"

"With my whole heart!"

"And I thee!" said the girl, with a candour that seemed innocent, as she
suffered him to clasp her hand.

"But," she added, "thou wilt soon leave us; and I--" She stopped short,
and the tears stood in her eyes.

There was something dangerous in this, it must be confessed. Certainly
Fillide had not the seraphic loveliness of Viola; but hers was a beauty
that equally at least touched the senses. Perhaps Glyndon had never
really loved Viola; perhaps the feelings with which she had inspired
him were not of that ardent character which deserves the name of love.
However that be, he thought, as he gazed on those dark eyes, that h