along the shelf of rock--a dark cloud in the wake of that
rosy and perfumed dawn.

"O, how delicious it is out here!" said the voice, which, if we were to
describe it from the lover's point of view, could be likened only to the
songs of birds, the musical utterance of purest flutes, or the blowing
of wild winds through those grand harp-strings, the mountain pines; for
there was more of poetry and passion compressed in the heart of this
quiet young Quaker than we shall venture to give breath to in these
pages.

"It is--delicious!" he quiveringly answered, in his happy confusion
blending _her_ with his perception of the daybreak.

She inhaled deep draughts of the mountain air.

"How I love it! The breath of trees, and grass, and flowers is in
it,--those dear friends of mine, that I pine for, shut up here in
prison!"

"Do you?" said Penn, vaguely, half wishing that he was a flower, a blade
of grass, or a tree, so that she might pine for him.

"The air of the cave," she said, "is cold; it is odorless. The cave
seems to me like the great, chill hearts of some of your profound
philosophers! Some of those tremendous books father makes me read to him
came out of such hearts, I am sure; great hollow caverns, full of
mystery and darkness, and so cold and dull they make me shudder to touch
them;--but don't you, for the world, tell him I said so,--for, to please
him, I let him think I am ever so much edified by everything that he
likes."

"What sort of books _do_ you like?"

"O, I like books with daylight in them! I want them to be living,
upper-air, joyous books. There must be sunshine, and birds, and
brooks,--human nature, life, suffering, aspiration, and----"

"And love?"

"Of course, there should be a little love in books, since there is
sometimes a little, I believe, in real life." But she touched this
subject with such airy lightness,--just hovering over it for an instant,
and then away, like a butterfly not to be caught,--that Penn felt a
jealous trouble. "How long," she added immediately, "do you imagine we
shall have to stay here?"

"It is impossible to say," replied Penn, turning with reluctance to the
more practical topic. "One would think that the government cannot leave
us much longer subject to this atrocious tyranny. An army may be already
marching to our relief. But it may be weeks, it may be months, and I am
not sure," he added seriously, "but it may be years, before Tennessee is
relieved."

"Why,