her or not she had seen me before, she stood for
a moment silent--a deep blush mantling her lovely cheek--masses of waving
brown hair disordered and floating upon her shoulders--her large and
liquid blue eyes beaming upon me. One look was enough. I was deeply
--irretrievably in love.

"Our cousin Harry--Harry Lorrequer--wild Harry, as we used to call him,
Clara," said one of the girls introducing me.

She held out her hand, and said something with a smile. What, I know
not--nor can I tell how I replied; but something absurd it must have
been, for they all laughed heartily, and the worthy papa himself tapped
my shoulder jestingly, adding,

"Never mind, Harry--you will do better one day, or I am much mistaken in
you."

Whether I was conscious that I had behaved foolishly or not, I cannot
well say; but the whole of that night I thought over plans innumerable
how I should succeed in putting myself forward before "Cousin Clara," and
vindicating myself against any imputation of schoolboy mannerisms that my
first appearance might have caused.

The next day we remained at home. Clara was too much fatigued to walk
out, and none of us would leave her. What a day of happiness that was!
I knew something of music, and could sing a second. Clara was delighted
at this, for the others had not cultivated singing much. We therefore
spent the whole morning in this way. Then she produced her sketch-book,
and I brought out mine, and we had a mutual interchange of prisoners.
What cutting out of leaves and detaching of rice-paper landscapes! The
she came out upon the lawn to see my pony leap, and promised to ride him
the following day. She patted the greyhounds, and said Gipsy, which was
mine, was the prettiest. In a word, before night fell Clara had won my
heart in its every fibre, and I went to my room the very happiest of
mortals.

I need not chronicle my next three days--to me the most glorious "trois
jours" of my life. Clara had evidently singled me out and preferred me
to all the rest. It was beside me she rode--upon my arm she leaned in
walking--and, to comble me with delight unutterable, I overheard her say
to my uncle, "Oh, I doat upon poor Harry! And it is so pleasant, for I'm
sure Mortimer will be so jealous."

"And who is Mortimer," thought I; "he is a new character in the piece, of
whom we have seen nothing."

I was not long in doubt upon this head, for that very day, at dinner, the
identical Mortimer pres