Capricious in his pursuits, Godfrey was not less inconstant in his affections; and the graceful person and pleasing manners of Juliet Whitmore had made a deeper impression upon his fickle mind than he thought it prudent to avow; nor was he at all insensible to the pecuniary advantages that would arise from such a union.

CHAPTER IX.

    Come, tell me something of this wayward girl. 
    Oh, she is changed—­and such a woful change! 
    It breaks my heart to think on’t.  The bright eye
    Has lost its fire, the red rose on her cheek
    Is washed to whiteness by her frequent tears;
    And with the smile has fled the ruby glow
    From the twin lips, so tempting and so ripe;
    That wooed to love with their ambrosial breath,
    That, issuing through those dewy portals, showed
    The pearly teeth within, like gems enshrined.—­S.M.

What aileth thee this morning, young daughter, that thou lingerest so long before the mirror, adjusting and re-adjusting the delicately-tinted Provence rose-buds in thy dark flowing tresses?  Art thou doubtful of thy charms, or have the calm bright eyes of the young stranger made thee diffident of the power of thy own surpassing loveliness?  Those eyes have caught thy young fancy, and made thee blind to all other objects around thee.  They have haunted thee through the long night; thou couldst not sleep; those dark eyes looked into thy soul; they have kindled upon the hidden altar of life the sad and beautiful light of love.  Thou no longer livest for thyself; another image possesses thy heart, and thou hast wonderingly discovered a new page in the poetry of thy nature.

“Yes, love—­first love—­is a sad and holy thing; a pleasure born out of pain, welcomed with smiles, nourished by tears, and worshipped by the young and enthusiastic as the only real and abiding good in a world of shadow.  Alas! for the young heart, why should it ever awake to find the most perfect of its creatures like the rest—­a dream!”

And poor Juliet’s love-dream was banished very abruptly by the harsh voice of Aunt Dorothy.

“Miss Whitmore, the dinner waits for you.  Quick! you have been an hour dressing yourself to-day.  Will you never have done arranging your hair?  Now, do pray take out those nasty flowers.  They do not become you.  They look romantic and theatrical.”

“Ah, aunt, you must not rob me of my flowers, God’s most precious gift to man.”

“I hate them!  They always make a room look in a litter.”

“Hate flowers!” exclaimed Juliet, in unaffected surprise.  “God’s beautiful flowers!  I pity your want of taste, my good aunt.”

“Nay, spare your commiseration for those who need it, Miss Whitmore.  My judgment is certainly not inferior to yours; and I never could discover the use or beauty of flowers.  What! not satisfied yet?” as Juliet cast another hurried glance at the mirror.  “The vanity of girls in our days is quite disgusting to a woman of sense.”