not her beauty, remarkable as this
was--it was not her brightest of blue eyes, nor her fairest of
complexions, nor those rich luxuriant tresses--that formed the greatest
charm in Emily Sherwood. It was the delightful combination she displayed
of a cheerful vivacious temper with generous and ardent feelings. She
was as light and playful as one of the fawns in her own park, but her
heart responded also to every noble and disinterested sentiment; and the
poet who sought a listener for some lofty or tender strain, would have
found the spirit that he wanted in the gay and mirth-loving Emily
Sherwood.

Poor Darcy! he would sit, or walk, by her side, talking of this or that,
no matter what, always happy in her presence, passing the most delicious
hours, but not venturing to betray, by word or look, how very content he
was. For these hours of stolen happiness he knew how severe a penalty he
must pay: he knew and braved it. And in our poor judgment he was right.
Let the secret, stealthy, unrequited lover enjoy to the full the
presence, the smiles, the bland and cheerful society of her whom his
heart is silently worshipping. Even this shall in future hours be a
sweet remembrance. By and by, it is true, there will come a season of
poignant affliction. But better all this than one uniform, perpetual
torpor. He will have felt that mortal man _may_ breathe the air of
happiness; he will have learned something of the human heart that lies
within him.

But all this love--was it seen--was it returned--by her who had inspired
it? Both, both. He thought, wise youth! that while he was swallowing
draught after draught of this delicious poison, no one perceived the
deep intoxication he was revelling in. Just as wisely some veritable
toper, by putting on a grave and demure countenance, cheats himself into
the belief that he conceals from every eye that delectable and
irresistible confusion in which his brain is swimming. His love was
seen. How could it be otherwise? That instantaneous, that complete
delight which he felt when she joined him in his rambles, or came to sit
with him in the library, could not be disguised nor mistaken. He was a
scholar, a reader and lover of books, but let the book be what it might
which he held in his hand, it was abandoned, closed, pitched aside, the
moment she entered. There was no stolen glance at the page left still
open; nor was the place kept marked by the tenacious finger and thumb.
If her voice were hea