What is there more beautiful than the first love of a young heart? every thought is fresh and pure, the poetry of life has not yet been crushed out of the soul—then it is we love with an intensity such as we never feel again. It was thus that our heroine loved. Every thing Harry had done, and every thing he had said, had been treasured, and had become, as it were, unquestioned oracles with her. The flowers he had loved, now possessed a fragrance hitherto undiscovered; and the landscape he had praised, appeared more elegant than it had ever done before. The poetry he had read to her, she now read so often, that she could repeat every line. Sometimes she questioned her heart, why it turned so instinctively toward one who was comparatively a stranger, for the gratification of all its cherished feelings. She was perfectly sure that love had no share in what she felt, notwithstanding uncle Pluribusi’s hints to the contrary, or her father’s wishes that it might be so—love was entirely out of the question, for he had never spoken of love to her, and she could never love unbidden; though, to be sure, his eyes had often spoken a language far more expressive than his lips could have done.

The summer months passed away; the green leaves fell from the trees, and the bleak sea-breeze swept through the deserted garden, yet Mary had never received tidings of Harry. Then came winter, spreading over nature its wings laden with frosts and storms.

The winter of life resembles the winter of the year—both have their withering storms, and both take the place of sweet summer, of roses and hopes, and the dreams of youth.

Mary now awakened from her dream. She found that she had built up a fairy palace, and that the scene of thrilling enchantment was dissolving away. But where the scene had been, there appeared every prospect of a ruin. She who had hitherto bloomed in freshness and beauty, now withered in the blast; for she felt that she was utterly forgotten, at the same time the startling consciousness of what was really the truth, that she had given her love unsought, had burst upon her. Her smile lost its brightness, her step its elasticity. At times she would rouse herself, and assume a gayety she was far from feeling, especially if the eye of her father or uncle rested upon her; but this artificial manner passed away like the dew before the morning sun. About this time Mary received a letter from a friend in Albany, inviting her to spend some weeks with her. Her father, thinking scenes of festivity and pleasure would have a charm for her, hurried her away, and Mr. Pluribusi accompanied her.

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