ust
committed."

CHAPTER VI.

Delia Floyd was a girl of more than ordinary attractions, and it is
not surprising that young Wallingford was drawn, fascinated, within the
charmed circle of her influence. She was, by no means, the weak, vain,
beautiful young woman, that the brief allusion I have made to her might
naturally lead the reader to infer. I had possessed good opportunities
for observing her, for our families were intimate, and she was
frequently at our house. Her father had given her a good education--not
showy; but of the solid kind. She was fond of books, and better read, I
think, in the literature of the day, than any other young lady in S----.
Her conversational powers were of a high order. Good sense, I had always
given her credit for possessing; and I believed her capable of reading
character correctly. She was the last one I should have regarded as
being in danger of losing a heart to Ralph Dewey.

In person, Delia was rather below than above the middle stature. Her
hair was of a dark brown, and so were her eyes--the latter large and
liquid. Her complexion was fresh, almost ruddy, and her countenance
animated, and quick to register every play of feeling.

In manner, she was exceedingly agreeable, and had the happy art of
putting even strangers at ease. It was no matter of wonder to me, as
I said before, that Henry Wallingford should fall in love with Delia
Floyd. But I did wonder, most profoundly, when I became fully assured,
that she had, for a mere flash man, such as Ralph Dewey seemed to me,
turned herself away from Henry Wallingford.

But women are enigmas to most of us--I don't include you, dear
Constance!--and every now and then puzzle us by acts so strangely out
of keeping with all that we had predicated of them, as to leave
no explanation within our reach, save that of evil fascination, or
temporary loss of reason. We see their feet often turning aside
into ways that we know lead to wretchedness, and onward they move
persistently, heeding neither the voice of love, warning, nor reproach.
They hope all things, believe all things, trust all things, and make
shipwreck on the breakers that all eyes but their own see leaping and
foaming in their course. Yes, woman is truly an enigma!

Squire Floyd was a plain, upright man, in moderately good circumstances.
He owned a water power on the stream that ran near our town, and had
built himself a cotton mill, which was yielding him a good annua