THE HEIRESS OF OAKDALE.

Hawke's Bay Herald, Volume 12, Issue 976, 8 September 1868, Page 3

THE HEIRESS OF OAKDALE.

(From tho " Family Herald.") Chapter I. " Oakdale is to be inhabited at last I" exclaimed my father, with an air of great excitement, as he entered the drawingroom where my mother and I were sitting. " Indeed ! I am very glad to hear it," said my mother, laying down her book, and looking up to him with an air of pleased attention. "Who is coming there P" "Ah, that is the question that has set all the gossips of the county by the ears," replied my father. "At first it was said a wealthy banker had bought it ; then the idea of a retired nabob was started, and lasted for a whole week. But the reality is certainly romantic." " You have not yet told us what it is," observed my mother. "A young girl, just eighteen, and a very lovely reality I am told she is," was the reply.. " Stephens and Eawson wrote to me about the estate six months since, and said they had a client who was willing to comply with all the terms and conditions of purchase." " But I thought he was an old Russian officer," said my mother. " Something of the kind," replied my father. "The romance is in this — that, after a long life of hard work in Russia, he, being an Englishman, resolved to - spend the few later years of his life in, his own "country. He had made a vast fortune, and had only one child, a daughter, who is, I am told, as beautiful and accomplished as she is rich. He wished his English agents to look out for an estate for him, money being no object; they were to wait until one offered that had all the advantages he wished. As soon as Oakdale was advertised they tried for it, and succeeded in obtaining it, as they not only complied with every condition, but oftered more purchase money than any other bidder had done." "I am glad to hear it, for Walter's sake," said my mother. " I have not quite finished my story," said my father, politely. "As soon as Mr. Eyrie, the name of the gentleman for whom the purchase was made, knew that the business was concluded, he made arrangements for leaving Russia and coming at once to take possession of his new home : he would not allow any repairs to be commenced; he preferred seeing the place as it is, and allowing his young daughter to exhibit her taste and please her fancy in the alterations. " Alterations at Oakdale," interrupted my mother, " would be simply desecration." " You are right," said my father ; "but poor Mr. Erie will never make any alterations. He arrived with his daughter and suite in London six weeks ago. They went to Morley's Hotel, where I am really sorry to say the poor gentleman took to his bed, and died." " How sad !" said my mother. "Is his daughter left quite alone ?" " An old aunt, a relation of her father's, is with her," replied my father. " She is left, in fact, under her care. I have just received a letter from her, saying that she will accompany her niece to Oakdale ; and as they have no other home in England, and are tired of hotel life, they will remain there." " Why did they write to you ? " inquired my mother. " Because they knew I had the management and sale of the estate," he replied. "It is a nice, lady-like letter. I have brought it for you to read." " Very courteous indeed," was my mother's verdict, as she returned the note. " What shall you do next? " " Why, you see what she says," said my father. " They will be here next Thursday, and will thank me in the meantime to get what servants I can, and have a few rooms at least made habitable." " As though they were not all so !" added my mother, with some little indignation. " They cannot be expected to know that," continued my father. " What I propose doing is this : Mrs. Vance, the faithful old housekeeper, is still at the Hall, quite alone it is true ; but I thought if Belle and you would like a drive, we would go over this morning, and you can arrange with her what servants to engage. Some of the old ones would like to come back." " I shall like the drive," said my mother ; " I never saw any spot so. lovely as Oakdale Park ; and Belle will enjoy it, too." Need I say I felt delighted at the prospect of a fair young neighbour, though my heart ached for Walter Bohun and his many cares, The Bohuns had lived at Oakdale for many generations ; they were a noble, generous, kind, but improvident race. " Loyal and true," was the family motto, and they had never disgraced it;. ABobun impoverished himself iv Prince Charlie's cause ; another in a time of distress laid the greater portion of his wealth afc his sovereign's feet ; another, and perhaps still braver one, fell at Waterloo ; and Sir Stephen Bohun, after a long life of reckless generosity and prodigal extravagance, fell in the Ciimea, leaving to his son Walter the heritance of encumbered estates and debts of enormous magnitude. Walter lost his mother while he was still an infant, or things would have doubtless been different for him. Lady Bohun was the only one who possessed any influence over her wild, reckless husband. Her prudent wishes and opinions influenced him in spite of himself ; and had that lair and lovely lady lived, Oakdale would never have been advertised for sale ; but she died in the springtide of her youth and beauty, and left her husband and little babe to lament her loss. Sir Stephen mourned her long and sadly, and in all the wildness of his after life no other woman's fair face charmed him. Wine and play had their attractions for him, but his heart and his love lay buried in his wife's grave. When Walter was old enough, he was sent to school, then to college, and won golden opinions at both places ; and his father, making a great effort, purchased for him a commission in one of the finest regiments of cavalry. While Walter studied and worked, his father drank and spent ; he was obliged to raise a heavy mortgage on his estate ; he felt that deeply, but said not a word to his son. Remorse had no good effect upon poor Sir Stephen ; he only drowned his care the more. Heavy debts pressed upon him, ruin stared him in tho face, when the Crimean war began ; and he who had beeu a soldier in his youth roused himself at the war-cry ; the old martial spirit burned again within him ; his indolent, self-indulgent life reproached him ; and though no longer in the prime of life, Sir Stephen resolved to atone for his past career. He rejoined the army, and went with his regiment to the seat of war. The father did not care just then to see his noble young son, whose life was in every respect so great a contrast to his own. " I will do something," he thought, " worthy of the name of Bohun, and then tell Walter all about our difficulties." He wrote to him before ho left England, and the next thing the young man heard w.as that his father had died in the hardest' and best fought engagement, and

that a whole nation honoured him as a ■hero, so full of courage and brave deeds;? was that short military career. . The young heir came down to take pos~ session. Alas! it was but a mockery of forms and deeds. There was nothing for him to inherit, save huge bundles of bills ; the broad, fair lands of his fathers were, heavily mortgaged ; and, hearing of Sir Stephen's death, the firm who had ad- . vanced the money now called it in. My father was left as guardian to Sir Walter, who had then attained his . twentieth year ; and long and deep were . the consultations between him and his young ward. There was, perhaps, no> legal force binding upon poor Walter to pay his < father's debts. He might . have avoided them, and have raised 1 the mortgage money ; but he was a Bohun, to whom honour was far dearer than life. Improvident as his father had been, ■ he loved him, and revered his memory too much to allow one stain to tarnish it. Those who regretted his father as a father . and a hero, should never have it in their power to say he died a spendthrift bankrupt. "I am young," said Walter. to my father, "and I must work. Others have, had a harder fate than mine. I love my profession, and I must live by it." . But a strange pain smote him as he thought of selling that which hfs ancestors had gloried in ; there seemed, however, no ■ alternative. If the estates were sold he would then be able to pay off the debts which weighed so heavily upon him, and to reserve a small income of three hundred per annum for himself. No one need know why it had been done, and the family honour would at least be saved. •■ " It is hard for you; my poor boy," said my father, laying his hand upon the bright, young head, bowed in such bitter grief before him. Walter was not ashamed of the tears that he could not restrain, nor of the heavy sobs that shook his frame, as he finally decided upon parting with his grand old home.. If he could have preserved the Hall itself he would have cared less; but he dreaded the thought that strangers would soon roam over the gardens in which his mother had taken such, pride. In the Hall, where his father had shown such princely hospitality, stranger hands would perhaps remove the old portraits from the walls where they had hung for many generations, and would change ' the rooms where his fair young mother had lived and died. It was hard ; he had been reared in affluence and taught to believe himself the heir to an old title, and, still better, a large estate. Now what was the title but a mockery ? — a baronet with three hundred per annum to maintain, his dignity and honours ! Amongst his companions Walter had been looked up to as an eldest son and heir always is ; he had been flattered, admired, and envied ; he had looked for- • ward with some pride to the day when the old mansion and the magnificent park would be his. He had studied hard that he might fill his position with honor and credit ; he had had dreams of entering ' Parliament, of serving his country and filling his days with honor and good deeds. Where were all these dreams now ? Flown ; nothing remained to him ; there was not even one loving heart on which he could weep out his sorrow : he was alone in the world. "Never mind," said Walter, raising himself and drawing his slight graceful figure to its full height, " I will waste no more time in regret ; I have my own way to make in the world now. If I succeed I shall have myself to thank ; if 1 fail, ' - there will be none to blame me." "Do not forget, Walter," said my father, " that while I live you have a true and warm friend. My house is yours when you choose to use it ; my wife shares my affection for you, and Belle has always been your little sister." "You are indeed kind, sir," said the poor youth, grasping the hand held out to him. " I will never say I am homeless and frendless while you live." Walter stayed with us until all his affairs were arranged. The Oakdale es- ' tate was advertised for sale ; the mortgage money was promised within the year; the creditors were all assured of the speedy ; payment of their" accounts. Nothing remained to be done save to choose fro/m. many bidders the most eligible one. This ' was left in my father's hands. Walter ' wished him to undertake it, and lie did ; ', so, arranging with him that as soon af the purchase money was paid he would \a% ' " once discharge every debt, and invest the 1 , surplus to the best advantage. , ' ' One painful thing poor Walter was obliged to do himself, and that was to discharge the numerous servants, some of whom bad been in the family many years. He assembled them all in the library, and told them that as he had decided upon selling the estate, they would no longer be required. They were paid liberally and dismissed, to their own great sorrow and dismay; for they all dearly loved their kind young master, and were at a. loss to imagine the reason of his conduct; perhaps some few amongst them guessed, from their knowledge of the late baronet, how badly the young one was likely to fare. Mrs. Vance, the stately old housekeeper, stoutly refused to move. It was in vain Walter assured her the Hall was to be sold. "Is it already disposed of, Sir Walter ?" she asked. " Why no, not yet," he replied ; but it will be, soon. There are several purchasers already in the field." " Then, with your permission, sir, I will remain here until the new family comes," said Mrs. Vance. "I was here as maid to Lady Bohun, your mother, Sir Walter, and I helped to nurse you. I have had no other home, and I will not leave this until I am obliged to do so." " But, my good Mrs. Vance " said Sir Walter. " Excuse me, sir," interrupted the old lady, with a stately courtesy, " I beg you will say no more. My late honoured master was a most liberal one. I have saved money, and shall not require to earn more. That I may be permitted to retain possession of my own room is all I: ask. I could not bear to see the old house, closed, sir, and left to cobwebs and dustWhen the new family come I willleave as soon as they wish." As all argument was found to be useless, Walter allowed the old lady to have her way, and she remained the sole occupant of the stately old mansion. It was perhaps well that she did so, for her care of it knew no bounds. The rooms were kept clean, and free from dust ; nothing was changed or altered ; and it could scarcely, have been known but that a retinue of servants were still retained there. Better news came for Walter ; he was chosen from amongst his young compeers to accompany the commanding officer of the regiment abroad, where he was going on a matter of great trust and importance. " I am sincerely glad," said my father to him; "the total change of scene will divert your mind from your recent troubles ; besides, it will be less trying for you than if you had to return and encounter the remarks and gossip of a mess-room." So our young hero bade us farewell, promising to visit us as soon, as. he re* turned to England.

p«=-.»=,>-=rv3e4-;> »-;-,- >'--■- --• v •■.-.-- ■ •-. .■•■■'. ■ • • ' My father had been for many years Sir Stephen^ iJohuh's " nearest neighbour and mtost'infc^Btte friend. True, he knew nothing of tiie* state of his pecuniary affairs, jior'had- My remonstrances proved of any avail, when he tried, for Walter's sake, to make his father more careful . Sir Stephen had chosen him for his son's guardian, because he knew the great love my father Kad for theboy. • While Walter was young we had been great friends, and playfellows. If he had been my own brother, I could not have loved him more ; and he fully returned my affection. . To choose an eligible purchaser for Oakdale had been a great trouble and care to my father. In Mr. Eyrie he found all he required; and the day oh which he received.the handsome sum paid for the estate, and discharged all the numerous and heavy liabilities of his late friend, was one of > the happiest of his life. To find that his future neighbour was, affer all, a young and lovely lady, instead of a grey-headed old man, was, as he assured my mother, very romantic indeed. ■ ;■■ '•" Chaptee 11. Our drive to. Oakdale. was delightful; Mrs. Vance was charmed beyond all measure to hear of the new-comers. All business arrangements were soon made, and three or four servants from the neighbouring town were engaged; fires were lighted in the large chilly rooms ; and before ,the eventful Thursday arrived everything, was ready for the new-comers. ••■"l' think," said my father, " that after all the letters I have had from these ladies I am bound to be at the Hall to receive them ; not to stay, but just to bid them welcome home." " It would be a proper act of attention and -politeness," replied my mother, who understood and obeyed the laws of etiquette, implicitly. " I must own to being rather curious about them," said my father ; "so much in a country neighbourhood depends upon the people one has to associate with." ; "(There cannot be much association," said my mother, smiling, " between us and a young lady of Miss Eyrie's age ; but I hope she will prove a nice companion for Belle." "To be sure," said my father; "but, my dear she may get married, or keep an open house for visitors." "There is no one here for her to marry," said niy mother ; "so that our acquaintance will be disinterested enough." My father rode away, and was absent some hours! My anxiety for his return Was very great, for I longed exceedingly to know something of the young heiress. '• What is she like, papa?" I cried, as soon as he entered. - > "I am not a good, hand at description, Belle," said he, a quiet smile playing round, his lips ; " but you will see her tomorrow. After a most pressing invitation I h^W promised to take your mamma and you over." . ' "Do they seem to like the place ?" asked' my mother. : "The ybung lady, Miss Eyrie, is in raptures with it," he replied. "I am thankful to say that she will not even permit! a chair to be moved from its place, still less will she allow any material alterations." "I am so glad," I cried ; "poor Walter willfeel.it so much less than if his old home were changed." " She' shows very correct taste and much good feeling," - said my father. "Y.ou must look to your toilette, Belle, for our. heiress understands dress, or I am mistaken!" -' The following day was bright and sunny, and'we started at noon for Oakdale. ■'" How pleased she must be," I thought, "to own this glorious park !" It was the tern, . ideal of an English home. The grand old trees, the herds of deer, the picturesque glades, the waving fragrant grass^ the' little thickets and dells, the thousands of birds that made the air resound with their glad song, it must have been pleasant for her to know that all this .was her own. A long avenue of chestnut trees led to the house; it was an old grey stone building; the lawn in the front was gay with many-coloured flowers and glistening fountains, in which the. sun glanced and sparkled. A long flight of broad white steps led to the Hall doorj and as soon as i it was opened you felt that you were in one of "the, stately homes of England." Tbje hall was large and hung round with many a trophy won by the Bohuns of old. The large' and stately dining-room was furnished all in oak, of great value and antiquity; the lofty and gorgeous draw-ing-rooms were perfect ; the whole house was replete with every comfort and luxury. The rooms Walter loved best, and taught me to love, were those used by his young mother. Nothing in them had been . disturbed since her death. The flowers she had gathered were there, withered and dried : the book she had been reading when her.fatal illness seized her lay pn the table where she had left it. . The tears blinded my eyes as we were ushered into the drawing-room ; everything spoke so strongly of the absent brother whom I had learned to love so dearly. -, ,The door opened, and the old aunt entered. She was a quiet, kind gentlewoman, who looked as though, she had known suffering and care. She welcomed us kindly, and said she had sent for Miss Eyrie, who was somewhere in the grounds. .A. low, rippling laugh sounded just underneath the window, and thea there came into the room the loveliest girl I had ever seen in my life. I looked at my father; he might well decline any description of such a face and figure as I saw before me. None but a poet or painter could do justice to such a subject. A wealth of golden hair that fell in ringlets was the first thing that struck me. Then came a face that dazzled me by its beauty. The eyes were of the darkest violet, full of light, of love, and happiness, sometimes dreamy and tender, then sparkling and bright; the lashes were long and black, the brows arched and clear; the sweet smiling lips were full, and beautifully formed. The face was one never seen out of Old England. So fair, and yet tinted exquisitely like awildrosß, it would haunt you even in your dreams; you could never forget it. Her voice was soft and musical, with a happy, j°y°us cadence; and her every movement was grace and poetry. -. She welcomed my father with great cordiality* and. to my mother she was all respectful attention. When she came to me, she kissed me affectionately, and said, 'f I have b^en longing to see you ever since Mr» Dacre mentioned you yesterday. I have no sisters, and no friends here in England. Will you be both to me ?" X said. '' Yes;" and I have faithfully kept my .word ever since. . After the proper length of time had elapsed, my parents rose to take leave. '■> "My. Dacre," said Miss Eyrie, " I look updn.you; Ido not know why, as a kind of guardian. I hope you will have the kindness to join my dear aunt here in taking care of me." : --iMjir -mother looked rather surprised at this little impromptu address. My father was charmed; with it, and replied in the flame fratoky open spirit. 'it The'firsfcfavqur I have to beg of you," she r continued, gaily, "is, that you will Jeaveineyour daughter for the remainder

of the day. " I want some one who knows the place to show me every nook and corner in it." / "I will do so willingly," replied my father. " I will, send the carriage for you, Belle, at nine." And a glorious day we had. As soon as we were alone Miss Eyrie came to me, and puttingher little white jewelled hands upon my shoulder, looked straight into my eyes, and said, " I know I shalllike you, I might say loveyou. You have the clear, honest, true look that always wins my heart, though I rarely see it. You would always tell the truth, even when it would cosjfc you dear." I was' almost too bewildered to reply, but she waited for no words. " I am in a fair way for being spoiled now," she went on. "I am rich and alone ; my aunt sees no fault in me ; yet I know I have many. Will you be my true friend and promise never to flatter me, but whenever you see anything amiss to tell me of it, just as if I were a sister of your own ?" I promised, and have kept my word. " One thing more," she added : " I do not like form or ceremony ; call me Florence, and let me say Belle ; then we shall be easy and happy." She seemed wonderfully relieved when I complied. "I had a, very lonely life in Eussia," she said. * " I was at school until I was seventeen ; then my poor father sent for me, and told me he did not wish me to form any friendships there, as our home would soon be in England." " Were you pleased to hear that ?" I asked. "Yes," was the reply; "but I was rather frightened too ; for he told me then how much money he had saved, and what a grand estate he was going to buy. Poor little me ! I quite trembled at the idea of being the representative of so much wealth." " I should have liked it," said I. " Would you ?" said Florence ; " I did not much. Then came all the bustle of preparation, and the long, cold journey. You heard of my dear father's sad death?" she added, and her bright blue eyes filled with tears. "Now," she continued, "me void, eighteen, mistress of Oakdale, motherless, fatherless, almost friendless ; would you change places with me ?" " No," I replied, honestly and warmly ; " I think being loved is the most precious thing in the world, far above money." " You.are right," she said ; " and now tell me about the people who used to live here. Why did they sell this beautiful place P" Seated by her side, watching the sun shine upon her golden hair, I told her the story of Walter Bohun, and she was nearly breathless with excitement when I had finished. " What a noble man !" she exclaimed. "What a grand hero, Belle! Tell me more of him. Where is he now ?" "Abroad with Sir Philip Newton," I replied. "He will not return until next year." " And you love him, you say, Belle ?" "He has been like my own brother ever since we were children," I replied. " Every one loves him who knows him." " Oh, how I should like to know such a man as that," said Florence. "All the people I have ever come across have been quite commonplace. He is a hero." "He acted nobly," I said ; " but, after all, he only did what was right." " Ah, that is how you practical people talk !" she exclaimed, clasping her hands impatiently ; " as though doing right were not at times the most difficult thing in the world. Why, the man who does right is a hero. See," she added, pointing through the open window to the rich waving woods and glorious scene without, " many people, Belle, would have done a little wrong to have kept such a home as this." " Walter never forgot he was a Bohun," said I. "He ever dreaded dishonour far more than even poverty and death." "Is he poor ?" she asked, her beautiful face growing sad and grave. " Comparatively speaking," I replied ; I " but my father says Walter is sure to regain his position in time." " How deeply he must have felt leaving Qakdale," said Florence. " I shall always consider myself a great usurper, " Nay, that you must not do," said I. " Bemember, the money that your father paid for this estate enabled Walter to clear his father's memory from all stain of debt or dishonour." "I am glad of that," she said ; " but I wish he could have had the money without losing Oakdale." My heart warmed to her as she spoke so gently and pityingly of my absent friend. " If you will come with me," I said, " I will show you the two rooms Walter valued more than all his lands." I took her to the rooms where his young mother had bloomed in her youth and beauty; I showed her how every trace of that fair and noble lady's presence had been preserved. The tears fell fast as she gazed upon a little cap, half embroidered, that lay on the work-table near the window. "Was that for Lady Bohun's baby?" she asked. • " Yes," I replied, " and the baby was Walter. It is twenty years since the happy young wife sat there working for the child she was never to see." " Did she never see Walter?" inquired Miss Eyrie. " She died on the same day he was born," I replied. " I will never, while I live," she said, resolutely, "allow these rooms to be touched. No one shall come near them but Mrs. Vance, who tells me she was Lady Bohun's own maid. I have promised her she shall never leave Oakdale. Come with me to the picture gallery, Belle," she added, after carefully locking both doors ; " show me Lady Bohun's portrait and Sir Walter's." We went through the long eorriddrs, talking earnestly the while. At the end of a long line of Bohuns shone the fair face of Walter's mother. " She was very beautiful," said Florence, after gazing earnestly for some time at the picture ; " but there is something in her face that seems to say she will die young. What earnest eyes ! I could fancy she was speaking to me. If she could do so, I wonder what she would say." I looked at her wonderingly; she was quite serious and grave. "Do you know, Belle," she addend, " I feel as though I were living in a romance or a dream. Shall I wake and find myself in St. Petersburg, or shall I become a Bohun and part of all I see around me ?" " You are fanciful," I said. " Will you come here to the library, and see Walter's portrait now P" I was proud of him as we stood before it ; for its beauty was of the highest kind. The noble chivalrous face and dark eyes might have belonged to a Chevalier Bayard ; the mouth was firm, though sweet and gentle ; something of melancholy made the features seem older and graver than the number of years warranted. She looked in silence, and turned away without speaking. That was the first of the many happy days I spent at Oakdale with my new but dearly loved friend. I found her disposition as charming as her person. She

was intelleotual, and possessed imaginative faculties of a high order. She was generous, even to a fault, truthful, arid naive. . She was more original in her thoughts and ideas than any person I had ever met. She clothed every subject we conversed upon in a new and fanciful garb. Her taste in literature was good, and of a higher class than ordinary ; but her chief charm to me lay in her wonderful musical powers. So ten months passed rapidly and cheerfully away ; then came a change of fortune for us. My father, though a gentleman of good family and position, had never been a very wealthy man. It had required prudent management, both on his part ana on my mother's, to enable them to keep up The Laurels, our pretty home, and to indulge in the luxury of a carriage; but now, by the death of a distant relative, of whom we had but seldom thought or heard, we suddenly came into possession of a handsome fortune. The first thing my mother decided upon was that a house must be taken for the season in town ; and, for the first time in my life, I saw before me the dazzling vision of London gaieties. Florence rejoiced with me, but declared it would be utterly impossible for her to stay at Oakdale alone ; and as her aunt, through delicate health, was unable to travel, and unwilling to change her residence, it was arranged that Miss Eyrie should accompany us. Chapteb 111. "G-ood news, Belle," said my father, entering the breakfast-room suddenly, as Florence and I were discussing the merits of Lady Lufton's ball; "who do you think will be in London to-day P" "I cannot guess, papa," I replied, "unless you mean Walter P" " You are right," said he ; "he returns from Paris to-day ; and, as his regiment is now at Hounslow, we may hope to see a great deal of him." I could not express my delight; I turned to my companion for sympathy. Her beautiful face looked pale and anxious. "Belle," she said, as my father hastened away, " promise me one thing." " I will promise you twenty if you will look like yourself,' I replied. _ " Ah, but seriously," said Florence ; "if Sir Walter Bohun comes, do not tell him just at first that I am the heiress of Oakdale." " But why not?" I asked, in surprise. "Do promise, Belle," she said. "I love you all so much, and you all love him, so that I wish him to like me a little also ; and I believe it would be quite impossible for him to do so, if, on his return home, I, by my presence here, revive all his painful thoughts." "What a strange idea !" I exclaimed. " But it is true, I am sure," said Florence. " How can he know who I am, and yet endure the sight of me? Let him know me and like me for your sakes first, then he will not feel so bitterly towards me." She was so anxious, and so distressed, and so in earnest, that, sooner than cause her pain, I promised all she required, and undertook the more difficult task of persuading my matter-of-fact parents to respect her wishes. Walter came on the day following ; but so improved, so handsome, and stately, I hardly recognised my old playfellow. A slight shade of melancholy only increased the beauty of his face. Had he been my father's own son he could not have met with a warmer welcome. His start of surprise and admiration when he was introduced to Florence amused me. She did indeed look most lovelj'-. Her white dress was plain, and worn without ornament, save one blush rose, an emblem of herself. Her wealth of golden hair needed no wreath. Another rose nestled there ; and a fairer, sweeter picture of youth and beauty it would have been impossible to find. " Who is that lovely girl ?" asked Walter, eagerly, as she withdrew, to leave us all together. " A friend of mine," I replied, carelessly, " who is visiting us." "A friend of yours !" he echoed. "Why, Belle, she is a wonder, — a marvel. I have seen the beauties of Paris, Vienna, and Madrid, but she surpasses them all. What golden hair !— what violet eyes ! Who is she ? What is her name P " Her name is Eyrie," I replied, " and she is an orphan. Ido not know much of her family, but I am warmly attached to her." "No wonder," said he. "If her mind is like her matchless face, she must nave been made to be loved." I smiled at his enthusiasm ; he remained with us the whole day, and accompanied us in the evening to the opera. I say accompanied us, but that is a figure of speech: Walter's whole soul was in his eyes, and they never left the lovely blushing face of Florence. " Do you like him, Florence ?" I asked, as soon as we were alone. "He is just what I expected to find him," she replied, a crimson flush dyeing her fair face. "Oh Belle," she added, earnestly, " how very glad I am that he does not know me !"