a word came to him, not a line of answer or
remembrance. This long silence was all the more intolerable, since the
time that intervened did but the more vividly stamp upon his memory the
delights of the past, and color with softer and more exquisite tints the
recollection of vanished hours,--hours spent in galloping gayly by her
side in the early morning, or idly and deliciously lounged away in
picture-galleries or concert-rooms, or in a conversation carried on in
some curious and subtle shape between two hearts and spirits with the
help of very few uttered words; hours in which he had whirled her
through many a fairy maze and turn of captivating dance-music, or in
some less heated and crowded room, or cool conservatory, listened to the
voice of the siren who walked by his side, "while the sweet wind did
gently kiss the flowers and make no noise," and the strains of "flute,
violin, bassoon," and the sounds of the "dancers dancing in tune,"
coming to them on the still air of night, seemed like the sounds from
another and a far-off world,--listened, listened, listened, while his
silver-tongued enchantress builded castles in the air, or beguiled his
thought, enthralled his heart, his soul and fancy, through many a golden
hour.

Thinking of all this, his heart well found expression for its feelings
in the half-pleasing, half-sorrowful lines which almost unconsciously
repeated themselves again and again in his brain:--

"Still o'er those scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear."

Thinking of all this, he took comfort in spite of his trouble.
"Perhaps," he said to himself, "he was mistaken. Perhaps"--O happy
thought!--it was but make-believe displeasure which had so tortured
him. Perhaps--yes, he would believe it--she had never received his
letter; they had been careless, they had failed to give it her or to
send it aright. He would write her once again, in language which would
relieve his heart, and which she must comprehend. He loved her; perhaps,
ah, perhaps she loved him a little in return: he would believe so till
he was undeceived, and be infinitely happy in the belief.

Is it not wondrous how even the tiniest grain of love will permeate the
saddest and sorest recesses of the heart, and instantly cause it to
pulsate with thoughts and emotions the sweetest and dearest in life? O
Love, thou sweet, thou young and ros