she looks up to behold its gold-and-purple wings dancing round her head, mocking and playing with its gay pursuer!  She thinks she has caught it; but, alas! the edge of her net only touched the butterfly’s wings, and away it dashes, over hedge and copse, far, far beyond her reach!  How beautiful she is, as, in that golden light, warmed with exercise and excitement, her eyes glistening, her lips parted, her graceful arms stretched upward, she stands gazing, half pleased, half disappointed, after the departing insect, till it is lost in the evening sky!  Wind and sunshine have slightly tanned her delicate cheeks, but their roses are only heightened into the glow of perfect health.  Beneath her high and polished brow, coal-black eyes shine through long and silken fringes, while a chiselled mouth discloses rows of faultless pearls between lips which shame the coral!  Her stately head is framed in masses of long, curling hair; and, as the locks are floated over her ivory shoulders by rapid motion, the proud and arching lines of her swan-like neck are fully displayed in all their splendor.  Her form is lithe and supple, and its graceful contour is modestly marked by a snowy dress.  As she lifts her head and gazes at the sky, a poet might easily fancy her to be some fanciful “being of the air,” and convert her into the fairy queen of the solitary realm!

For a long while this beautiful woman wandered about the paths of the lonely garden, seemingly absorbed in reveries of various kinds.  At times she was gay, at times sad.  At length she approached a bed of violets, which, from the training of the plants, had evidently, been carefully tended, and, observing that they languished under the intense heat of the past day, began to grieve over them.

“Alas! my dear little flowers, why did I neglect to water you yesterday?  You are very thirsty, are you not, my charming pets?”

For a moment or two she was quiet, still gazing at the violets, and then continued, in the same dreamy tone:—­

“But then, alas! since yesterday my mind has been so disturbed, so happy, so—­” Her eyes fell, and a blush crimsoned her cheeks, as she murmured, softly, “GUSTAVE!”

Motionless as a statue, and absorbed in her enchanting dream, she forgot the poor little violets, and, probably, the whole world.

“His image ever, ever before me! his voice ever ringing in my ears!  Why try to escape their fascination?  Oh, God! what is this that is passing within me?  My heart trembles; sometimes my blood bounds wildly through my veins, and then again it creeps and freezes; and yet how happy I am! what inexpressible joy fills my very soul!”

She was silent; then, seeming suddenly to rouse herself, she raised her head and threw back the thick curls, as if anxious to disembarrass her mind of a haunting thought.

“Wait, my dear flowers,” said she, smiling, to the violets; “wait a moment:  I will comfort and refresh you.”