"I may as well stop breathing as stop
loving," she would say, with a happy smile.
"Don't talk to me about my folly. Let me
go on with my toys; and, if they break in my
hand, you cannot help it, and I shall not come
to you for sympathy."

  She was not beautiful; but something—
whether it was her bright, happy face, or the
restless gaiety of her manner—bewitched
people, and made them like her. Men did
the maddest things imaginable for her sake;
and not only young men in whom folly was
pardonable, but those who should have been
too wise to be caught by the sparkle of her
smile, or the gay ringing of her laugh. She
did not trust them; her early life had taught
her better; but I think she liked them for
awhile, till some newer fancy came, and then
she danced past them, and was gone.

It was in the country that I met her first;
and there she was more herself than in the
city. We were distant relatives, though we
had never seen each other, and the Fates sent
me to spend my summer vacation with my
mother's aunt, in a country village, where she
was already domesticated. Had I known
this, I should have kept my distance; for it
was only a fourteenth or fifteenth cousinship
that lay between us, and I had a kind of
horror of her. I hardly knew why. I was a
steady-going, quiet sort of lawyer, and hated
to have my short holiday of rest and quiet
broken in upon by a fine lady. I said as
much to my aunt, in return for her announcement
of " Alice Kent is here," with which she
greeted me. She looked over her spectacles
in quiet wonder as I gave her a slight sketch
of the lady's city life, as I had had it from
the lips of "Mrs. Grundy" herself.

  "Well—live and learn, they say. But
whoever would think it was our Alice you
are talking of, Frank! However, I'll say no
more about her! You'll have plenty of time
to get acquainted with her, in the month you
mean to pass here.  And we are glad to see
you, and your bed-room is ready,—the one
you used to like."

  I took up my hat, and strolled away to
have a look at the farm.  By-and-by, I got
over the orchard wall, and crossed the brook,
and the high road, and went out into the
grove behind the house, whose farthest trees
were growing on the side of the hill which
looked so blue and distant from my chamber
window.  It was an old favourite place of
mine.  A broad wagon track led through the
woods, out to a clearing on the other side,
where was a little sheet of water, called The
Fairy's Looking-glass, and a beautiful view
of a lovely country, with the steep green hills
lying down in the distance, wrapped in a soft
fleecy mantle of cloud and haze. I could
think of nothing when I stood there, on a fine
sunshiny day, but the long gaze of Bunyan's
Pilgrim through the shepherd's glass, at the
beautiful city towards which he was journeying.
And it seemed sometimes as if I could
wander "over the hills and far away," and
lose myself in one of the fair valleys at the
foot of those hills, and be content never
to come out and face the weary world any
more.

  I walked slowly through the woods, with
the sunshine falling through the green leaves
of the young beeches in chequered radiance
on my path, drawing in long breaths of the
fresh air, and feeling a tingling in my veins
and a glow at my heart, as if the blood
were flowing newly there, until I came to the
little circular grove of pines and hemlocks
that led out upon the Fairy's Looking-glass.
Something stirred as I pierced my way through
the branches, and I heard a low growl.

  A girl was half-sitting, half-lying, in the
sunshine beside the little lake, throwing
pebbles into the water, and watching the
ripples that spread and widened to the other
shore.  A great black Newfoundland dog was
standing between me and her, showing a
formidable row of strong white teeth, and
looking me threateningly in the face.

  She started, and looked sharply round, and
saw me standing in the little grove with the
dog between us. She burst out laughing.

  I felt that I was cutting rather a ridiculous
figure, but I put a bold face upon the matter,
and asked coolly,

  "Are you Alice Kent?"

  "People call me so."

  " Then I suppose I may call you cousin,
for I am Frank Atherton?"

  " Cousin Frank! We have been expecting
you this week. When did you come?"

  "Just now."

  She made room for me beside her.  We
talked long, about our family, our mutual
friends, and the old homestead of the Athertons,
which she had seen, though I had not.
She told me about the house, and our cousins
who were then living there, and I sat listening,
looking now and then at her, as she sat with
the sunshine falling round her, and the great
dog lying at her feet.  I wondered, almost
as my aunt had done, if this was indeed the
Alice Kent of whom I had heard so much.
She was dressed plainly, very plainly, in a
kind of grey material, that fell around her in
light soft folds.  A knot of plain blue ribbon
fastened her linen collar, and a gipsy hat,
lying beside her, was trimmed with the same
colour.  Her watch chain, like a thread of
gold, and a diamond ring, were the only
ornaments she wore.  Yet I had never seen
a dress I liked so well.  She was tall (too
tall, I should have said, had she been anyone
else; for, when we were standing, her head
was almost on a level with mine) and slender,
and quick and agile in all her movements.
Her brown hair was soft and pretty, but she
wore it carelessly pushed away from her
forehead: not arranged with that nicety I
should have expected in a city belle.  Her
features were irregular, full of life and spirit,
but decidedly plain: her complexion fair,