nguages--the language of
Petrarch and Tasso; and being well versed in the use of the pencil,
showed her how to give to her landscapes a richer finish and a bolder
effect. Then they read together; and as they looked with a smile into
each other's countenances, the fascinating pages of fiction seemed to
acquire a tenfold interest. These were evenings of calm but deep
happiness--long, long to be remembered.

Spring flew rapidly on. March, with her winds and her clouds, passed
away; April, with her showers and her sunshine, lingered no longer; and
May came smiling up the blue sky, scattering her roses over the green
surface of creation. The stranger entered one evening, before sunset,
the little garden that surrounded Violet Cottage. Emily saw him from
the window and came out to meet him. She held in her hand an open
letter. "It is from my cousin Henry," said she. "His regiment has
returned from France, and he is to be with us to-morrow or next day. We
shall be so glad to see him! You have often heard us talk of Henry?--he
and I were playmates when we were children; and though it is a long time
since we parted, I am sure I should know him again among a hundred."
"Indeed!" said the stranger, almost starting; "you must have loved him
very much, and very constantly too." "Oh, yes! I loved him as a brother.
I am sure you will love him too," Emily added. "Everybody whom you love,
and who loves you, I also must love, Miss Sommers. But your cousin I
shall not at present see. I must leave Hodnet to-morrow." "To-morrow!
Leave Hodnet to-morrow!" Emily grew very pale, and leaned for support
upon a sun-dial, near which they were standing. "Can it be possible,
Miss Sommers--Emily--that it is for me you are thus grieved?" "It is so
sudden," said Emily, "so unexpected; are you never to return again--are
we never to see you more?" "Do you wish me to return, do you wish to see
me again, Emily?" he asked. "Oh! how can you ask it?" "Emily, I have
been known to you under a cloud of mystery, a solitary being, without a
friend or acquaintance in the world, an outcast apparently from
society--either sinned against or sinning--without fortune, without
pretensions; and with all these disadvantages to contend with, how can I
suppose that I am indebted to anything but your pity for the kindness
which you have shown to me?" "Pity! pity you! Oh, do not wrong yourself
thus. No! though you were a thousand times less worthy than I know you
are, I should n