——­never but in uncreated light
  Dwelt from eternity—­

took a pencil of fire from the hand of the “angel standing in the sun,” and placed it in the hands of a mortal.

THE MINISTER’S WOOING.

[Continued.]

CHAPTER XIV.

At the period of which we are speaking, no name in the New Republic was associated with ideas of more brilliant promise, and invested with a greater prestige of popularity and success, than that of Colonel Aaron Burr.

Sprung of a line distinguished for intellectual ability, the grandson of a man whose genius has swayed New England from that day to this, the son of parents eminent in their day for influential and popular talents, he united in himself the quickest perceptions and keenest delicacy of fibre with the most diamond hardness and unflinching steadiness of purpose;—­apt, subtle, adroit, dazzling, no man in his time ever began life with fairer chances of success and fame.

His name, as it fell on the ear of our heroine, carried with it the suggestion of all this; and when, with his peculiarly engaging smile, he offered his arm, she felt a little of the flutter natural to a modest young person unexpectedly honored with the notice of one of the great ones of the earth, whom it is seldom the lot of humble individuals to know, except by distant report.

But, although Mary was a blushing and sensitive person, she was not what is commonly called a diffident girl;—­her nerves had that healthy, steady poise which gave her presence of mind in the most unwonted circumstances.

The first few sentences addressed to her by her new companion were in a tone and style altogether different from any in which she had ever been approached,—­different from the dashing frankness of her sailor lover, and from the rustic gallantry of her other admirers.

That indescribable mixture of ease and deference, guided by refined tact, which shows the practised, high-bred man of the world, made its impression on her immediately, as the breeze on the chords of a wind-harp.  She felt herself pleasantly swayed and breathed upon;—­it was as if an atmosphere were around her in which she felt a perfect ease and freedom, an assurance that her lightest word might launch forth safely, as a tiny boat, on the smooth, glassy mirror of her listener’s pleased attention.

“I came to Newport only on a visit of business,” he said, after a few moments of introductory conversation.  “I was not prepared for its many attractions.”

“Newport has a great deal of beautiful scenery,” said Mary.

“I have heard that it was celebrated for the beauty of its scenery, and of its ladies,” he answered; “but,” he added, with a quick flash of his dark eye, “I never realized the fact before.”

The glance of the eye pointed and limited the compliment, and, at the same time, there was a wary shrewdness in it;—­he was measuring how deep his shaft had sunk, as he always instinctively measured the person he talked with.