ng knot at the back of her head, and inwoven with the varnished,
heart-shaped leaves of the smilax. More than this Mr. Bartlett did not
dare to notice.

During the evening he flitted restlessly about the rooms, intent on an
object which he thus explained to himself: "I should like to see
whether her front face corresponds to the outline of her cheek. I am
alone; it is too late to visit the Falls, and a whim of this sort will
help me to pass the time." But the lady belonged, apparently, to a
numerous party, who took possession of one end of the balcony and sat
in the moonlight, in such a position that he could not see her features
with distinctness. The face was a pure oval, in a frame-work of superb
hair, and the glossy leaves of smilax glittered like silver in the
moonlight whenever she chanced to turn her head. There were songs, and
she sang--"Scenes that are brightest," or something of the kind,
suggested by the influences of the night. Her voice was clear and
sweet, without much strength--one of those voices which seem to be made
for singing to one ear alone. "Here, by God's grace, is the one voice
for me," thought Mr. Bartlett. [He had just been reading the "Idyls of
the King."] He slipped off to bed, saying to himself: "A little more
courage, and I may be able to make her acquaintance."

In the morning he set out to make the tour of the Falls. Entering the
glen from below, he slowly crept up the black shelves of rock, under
and around the rush of the amber waters. The naiads of Trenton, waving
their scarfs of rainbow brede, tossed their foam fringes in his face:
above, the dryads of the pine and beech looked down from their seats on
the brink of the overhanging walls. Mr. Bartlett was neither a poet
nor a painter, nor was it necessary; but his temperament (as you may
know from his skin and the color of his hair) was joyous and excitable,
and he felt a degree of delight that made him forget his own self. I
fancy there are no embarrassing conventionalisms at the bottom of the
earth--wherever that may be--and the glen at Trenton is two hundred
feet on the way thither. Our friend enjoyed to the full this partial
release, and was surprised to find that he could assist several married
ladies to climb the slippery steps at the High Pall without consciously
blushing.

How it came to pass he never could rightly tell, but certain it is
that, on lifting his eyes after a long contemplation of the shifting
sli