She turned, and encountered the gaze of a stranger, who said in a deep, pleasant voice: 

“I have lost my way, I believe.  Is this Wilton Grove, Miss?”

“It is,” she answered, not daring to raise her eyes.

“Thank you.  I was not quite sure, yet I thought I followed the direction,” said the stranger, and gracefully bowing, departed.

In all her life so bright and manly a face had never crossed her path.  And that voice-it seemed to answer to something down deep in her soul.  It kindled a fire which was almost extinct, and that fire was hope.  Perhaps she would some day see people just like him, live with them, and be young and happy.

Old Trot seemed to share her new-found pleasure, and looked knowingly into her face, as much as to say, “There are some folks in the world worth looking at.”

She went home that night to dream of other forms and faces than those she had been so long accustomed to, and slept more sound than she had for many months.

Weeks passed away, and the bloom came back to Margaret’s cheek, a new life was in her eye, for the voice of love had spoken to her heart, and the blood leaped till the color of her face vied with that of the roses.

The young man whom she met that day in the grove, often found his way to that spot, not by mistake but by inclination, attracted by the fair face of Margaret.  Again and again he came, till his glowing words kindled the flame of hope to love, and it became a source of greatest pleasure to him to watch her dreamy eyes glow with brightness under his repeated vows of constancy.

Clarence Bowen was the only son of a city merchant of great wealth, acquired by his own indefatigable industry.  His son had inherited none of his father’s zeal for business, and after repeated efforts to make him what nature had never intended he should be, he sent him to study law at the college in D—­, a thriving town a few miles from Margaret’s home.  It was while there, and in an hour when weary with study, he wandered away to the spot where he accidentally met her.  His nature being not of the highest order, he did not hesitate to poison her mind with flattering words, until at length he won her heart, not as a pearl of great price, a treasure for himself, but as a bauble, which he might cast aside when its charm had departed.

Sad indeed was the day to her in which he told her she could never be his wife.  Pity her, ye who in happy homes have kind friends to guide your hearts into peace, and refresh your souls with a true and perfect love.  Have charity, and raise not hand nor voice against one who, had her life been cast in as pleasant places as yours, would not have trusted so fondly in a broken reed, or listened so confidingly to the siren voice of the tempter.  She had pined for a warm heart and a faithful love.  She had trusted and been betrayed.  You owe her your pity, not your condemnation.