that awaited her. Nearer and nearer she came,
and now George Dallas could see her face
distinctly, and could hear the pretty words with
which she coaxed her horse. It was a face to
remember; a face to be the happier for having
seen; a face whose beauty was blended of
form and colour, of soul, feature, and expression;
a face which had all that the earth
has to give of its best and fairest, touched
with the glory which is higher and better,
which earth has not to bestow. It was the
face of a girl of nineteen, whose clear eyes
were of golden brown, whose cheeks bloomed
with the purest, most varying flower-like
colour, whose rich golden hair shone in the
sunlight, as its braids rippled and turned about
with the movement of her head, tossed childishly
to the rhythmical measure of her horse's
tread.

Half a dozen trees only intervened between
her and the spot where George Dallas stood,
greedily watching her every movement and
glance, when she took her hat off, and pushed
the heavy golden hair off her broad white forehead.
At that moment, her horse jerked the
rein she held loosely, and pulled her slightly
forward, the hat falling from her hand on the
grass.

"Now see what you have done," she said, with
a gay laugh, as the animal stood still and looked
foolish. " I declare I'll make you pick it up with
your mouth. There, sir, turn, I tell you; come,
you know how." And she put the horse through
all the pretty tricks of stooping and half kneeling,
in which she evidently felt much more pleasure
than he did. But she did not succeed: he
obeyed touch and word readily; but he did not
pick up the hat. At last she desisted, and said
with a funny look of mock patience:

"Very well, Sir Lancelot, if you won't you
won't, so I must get off." She had just
gathered her skirt in her hand, and was about to
spring from her saddle, when George Dallas
stepped out from among the trees, picked up the
hat, and handed it to her, with a bow.

The young lady looked at him in astonishment,
but she thanked him with self-possession,
which he was far from sharing, and put her hat
on, while Sir Lancelot pawed impatiently.

"Thank you," she said; "I did not see any
one near." '

"I was sitting yonder," said George Dallas,
pointing to the spot whence he had emerged,
"on some fallen timber, and was just taking the
liberty of sketching the view of the house, when
you rode up."

She coloured, looked pleased and interested,
and said, hesitatingly, having bidden Sir Lancelot
"stand:"

"You are an artist, sir?"

"No," he answered, " at least, only in a very
small way; but this is such a beautiful place, I
was tempted to make a little sketch. But I
fear I am intruding; perhaps strangers are not
admitted."

"Oh yes they are," she replied, hurriedly.
"We have not many strangers in this
neighbourhood; but they are all welcome to come
into the park, if they like. Had you finished
your sketch?" she asked, timidly, with a look
towards the sheet of paper, which had fallen
when Dallas rose, and had been fluttered
into sight by the gentle wind. George saw the
look, and caught eagerly at any pretext for
prolonging the interview a few moments.

"May I venture to show you my poor
attempt?" he asked, and without awaiting her
answer, he stepped quickly back to the place he
had left. The girl walked her horse gently
forward, and as he stooped for the paper, she was
beside him, and, lifting his head, he caught for a
moment the full placid gaze of her limpid eyes.
He reddened under the look, full of gentleness
and interest as it was, and a pang shot through
his heart, with the swift thought, that once he
might have met such a woman as this on equal
terms, and might have striven with the highest
and the proudest for her favour. That was all over
now; but at least he, even he, might sun himself
in the brief light of her presence. She laid the
rein on Sir Lancelot's neck, and took the little
drawing from his hand with a timid expression
of thanks.

"I am no judge," she said, when she had
looked at it, and he had looked at her, his
whole soul in his eyes; " but I think it is very
nicely done. Would you not like to finish
it? Or perhaps there are some other points
of view you would like to take? I am sure
my uncle, Sir Thomas Boldero, would be
delighted to give you every facility. He is very
fond of art, and and—takes a great interest in
artists."

"You are very kind," said Dallas. " I shall
be at Amherst a day or two longer, and I
will take the liberty of making a few sketches
—that splendid group of sycamores, for
instance."

"Ah, yes," she said, laughing, " I call them
the godfathers and godmothers of the park.
They would make a pretty picture. I tried to
draw them once, myself, but you cannot
imagine what a mess I made of it."

"Indeed," said Dallas, with a smile, " and
why am I to be supposed unable to imagine a
failure?"

"Because you are an artist," she said, with
charming archness and simplicity, " and, of
course, do every thing well."

This simple exhibition of faith in artists
amused Dallas, to whom this girl was a sort of
revelation of the possibilities of beauty,
innocence, and naïveté.

"Of course," he replied, gravely; " nevertheless
I fear I shall not do justice to the
sycamores."

And now came an inevitable pause, and he
expected she would dismiss him and ride away,
but she did not. It was not that she had any
of the awkward want of manner which makes
it difficult to terminate a chance interview, for
she was perfectly graceful and self-possessed,
and her manner was as far removed from clumsiness
as from boldness. The girl was thinking,