the least.  Will he not discourse with rising and kindling eloquence upon everything connected with his Phillis?  Will not the ribbons on her bodice, and the lace around her neck, become the most important and delightful objects of discursive commentary?—­the very fluttering rosettes which burn upon her little instep, and the pearls which glitter in her powdered hair, be of more interest than the fall of thrones?  So Corydon, the lover, dreams, and dreams—­and if you approach him in the forest-glade, he sighs and talks to you, till evening reddens in the west, about Phillis, only Phillis.  And as the old Arcady lives still, and did at the time of our history, so Corydons were ready to illustrate it, and our young friend Verty felt the old pastoral desire to talk about his shepherdess, and embrace Miss Sallianna’s invitation to confide his sorrows to her respective bosom.

“Come now, my dear Mr. Verty,” repeated that lady, “tell me what all this means—­are you in love, can it be—­not with Reddy?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe I am,” said Verty, yielding to his love.  “Oh, I know I am.  I would die for her whenever she wanted me to—­indeed I would.”

“Hum!” said Miss Sallianna.

“You know she is so beautiful and good—­she’s the best and dearest girl that ever lived, and I was so happy before she treated me coldly this morning!  I’ll never be happy any more!”

“Cannot you banish her false image?”

“False! she’s as true as the stars!  Oh, Redbud is not false! she is too good and kind!”

Miss Sallianna shook her head.

“You have too high an opinion of the sex at large, I fear, Mr. Verty,” she said; “some of them are very inconstant; you had better not trust Redbud.”

“Not trust her!”

“Be careful, I mean.”

“How can I!” cried Verty.

“Easily.”

“Be careful?  I don’t know what you mean, Miss Sallianna; but I suppose what you say is for my good.”

“Oh yes, indeed.”

“But I can’t keep still, and watch and listen, and spy out about anybody I love so much as Redbud—­for I’m certain now that I love her.  Oh, no!  I must trust her—­trust her in everything!  Why should I not?  I have known her, Miss Sallianna, for years, and years—­we were brought up together, and we have gone hand in hand through the woods, gathering flowers, and down by the run to play, and she has showed me how to read and write, and she gave me a Bible; and everything which I recollect has something in it about Redbud—­only Redbud—­so beautiful, and kind, and good.  Oh, Miss Sallianna, how could I be careful, and watch, and think Redbud’s smiles were not here!  I could not—­I would rather die!”

And Verty’s head sank upon his hands which covered the ingenuous blushes of boyhood and first love.  In this advanced age of the world, we can pity and laugh at this romantic nonsense—­let us be thankful.

Miss Sallianna listened with great equanimity to this outburst, and smiling, and gently fanning Verty, said, when he had ceased speaking: