The intimacy of the two families now became a matter of daily occurrence.  Captain Whitmore who had always coveted a son of his own, was delighted with the society of the handsome intelligent young men.  They were fine lads! very fine lads!  He really did not know which to prefer.  Juliet’s choice would decide his, for the old man soon discovered that his daughter was the great attraction that drew the young men to the Lodge.  Perhaps, had he been questioned closely on the subject, the old veteran would have acknowledged that he preferred Godfrey.  He possessed more life and spirit than his quiet cousin; had more wit; was more lively and amusing.  He loved hunting and fishing; played well at chess and draughts; and sang a good song.  His face was always smiling and joyous; his brow never wore the cloud of care, the pensive earnest expression of refined thought which was so apparent in his cousin.  Godfrey made the room glad with his gay hearty laugh.  He was the life and soul of the convivial board, and prince of good fellows.  A woman must be happy with such a handsome good-natured husband, and the Captain hoped that his dear Julee would be the wife of his favorite.

Hearts understood hearts better.  Godfrey Hurdlestone was not the man who could make Juliet Whitmore happy.  There existed no sympathy between them.  The one was all soul, the other a mere animal in the fullest sense of the word; living but for animal enjoyment, and unable to comprehend the refined taste and exquisite sensibilities that belong to higher natures.  Yet he loved music, had a fine ear and a fine voice, and exercised both with considerable skill.  Here Juliet met him on equal terms; they played and sang together, and whilst so employed, and only drinking in sweet sounds, rendered doubly delicious when accompanied by harmonious words, Juliet forgot the something, she could not tell what, that made her feel such a deep aversion to the handsome musician.

“If my flute could but speak the language of my heart, how quickly, Miss Whitmore, would it breathe into your ear the tender tale which the musician wants courage to declare!”

“Ah,” returned Juliet quickly, “such notes would only produce discord.  Perfect harmony must exist before we can form a union of sweet sounds.  Similarity of mind can alone produce reciprocity of affection.  Godfrey Hurdlestone, there is no real sympathy between us—­nature never formed us for each other.”

“These are cruel words.  I will not destroy hope by believing them true.  We both love music passionately; here is at least one sympathy in common.  To love you has become so essential to my happiness that I cannot think that you can be wholly insensible to my passion.”

“You deceive yourself, Godfrey Hurdlestone.  The moth is attracted to the candle, but the union produces misery and death to the unfortunate insect.  Mere admiration is not love.  The novelty wears off; the soul is sated with the idol it worshipped, and its former homage sinks into contempt.  You seek the outward and palpable.  I seek that which is unseen and true.  But let us go to my father, he is fishing, and the evening is growing cold.  If he stays out much longer in the damp meadow, he will be raving with the rheumatism.”