azed, too, from the brilliantly-illumined
portico, toward the golden ocean in the west. The rich light lingered
lovingly upon her golden hair, and tender lips and cheeks, and snowy
neck, on which the coral necklace rose and fell with the pulsations of
her heart. The kind, mild eyes were fixed upon the sunset sadly, and
their blue depths seemed to hold more than one dew-drop, ready to pass
the barrier of the long dusky lashes, which closed gradually as the
pure white forehead drooped upon her hand.

For a long time the tender heart remained thus still and quiet; then
her lips moved faintly, and she murmured--

"Oh, it is wrong--I know it is--I ought not to!"

And two tears fell on the child's hand, and on the necklace, which the
fingers held.

CHAPTER XXVII.

PHILOSOPHICAL.

We left our friend Verty slowly going onward toward the western hills,
under the golden autumn sunset, with drooping head and listless arms,
thinking of Redbud and the events of the day, which now was going to
its death in royal purple over the far horizon.

One thought, one image only dwelt in the young man's mind, and what
that thought was, his tell-tale lips clearly revealed:--"Redbud!
Redbud!" they murmured; and the dreamer seemed to be wholly dead to
that splendid scene around him, dreaming of his love.

There are those who speak slightingly of boyhood and its feelings,
scoffing at the early yearnings of the heart, and finding only food
for jest in those innocent and childish raptures and regrets. We do
not envy such. That man's heart must be made of doubtful stuff, who
jeers at the fresh dreams of youth; or rather, he must have no heart
at all--above all, no sweet and affecting recollections. There is
something touching in the very idea of this pure and unselfish
emotion, which the hardened nature of the grown-up man can never feel
again. Men often dream about their childhood, and shed unavailing
tears as they gaze in fancy on their own youthful faces, and with the
pencil of imagination slowly trace the old forms and images.

Said a writer of our acquaintance, no matter who, since no one read or
thought of him:--"The writer of these idle lines finds no difficulty
in painting for himself a Titian picture, in which, as in his
life-picture, his own figure lies on the canvas. Long ago--a long,
long time ago--in fact, when he was a boy, and loved dearly a child
like himself, a child who is now a fair and beautiful-browed woman,
a