ye. But love to which
she could listen, was as new and fresh and strange, as a world into
which her foot had never ventured. That her aunt should point to a
certain masculine form, no matter how attractive or interesting, and
say, "Love and home are the lot of women," made her blood rush back on
her heart, like a stream from which a dam has been ruthlessly wrenched
away. It was too wild, too sudden; a friend's name was so much easier to
speak, or to contemplate. She did not know what to do with her own
heart, made to speak thus before its time; its beatings choked her;
everything choked her; this was a worse imprisonment than the other.
Looking round, her eye fell upon the flowers. Ah, was not their language
expressive enough, without this new suggestion? They seemed to lose
something in this very gain. She liked them less she thought, and yet
her feet drew near, and near, and nearer, to where they stood, exhaling
their very souls out in delicious perfume. "I am too young!" came from
Paula's lips. "I will not think of it!" quickly followed. Yet the smile
with which she bent over the fragrant blossoms, had an ethereal beauty
in it, which was not all unmixed with the

"Light that never was on land or sea,
The consecration and the poet's dream."

"He has asked to be my friend," murmured she, as she slowly turned away.
"It is enough; it must be enough." But the blossom she had stolen from
the midst of the fragrant collection, seemed to whisper a merry nay, as
it nodded against her hand, and afterwards gushed out its sweet life on
her pure young breast.

XXIX.

MIST IN THE VALLEY.

"The true beginning of our end."

--MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

Mr. Ensign was not slow in developing his ideas of friendship. Though he
did not venture upon repeating his visit too soon, scarcely a week
passed without bringing to Paula a letter or some other testimonial of
his increasing devotion. The blindest eye could not fail to remark
whither he was tending. Even Paula was forced to acknowledge to herself
that she was on the verge of a flowery incline, that sooner or later
would bring her up breathless against the dread alternative of a decided
yes or no. Friendship is a wide portal, and sometimes admits love; had
it served her traitorously in this?

Her aunt who watched her with secret but lynx-eyed scrutiny, saw no
reason to alter the first judgment of that mysterious, "It is all coming
right," with which