That same balmy evening I stood with Ella by the silver stream which traced its shining path around our home, watching the clear moonbeams as they flashed in the fairy foambells sparkling at our feet.  There I first told my love—­her hand was clasped in mine—­she heard me, and raising her dewy eyes, said, “Dearest Ethel, I love you well; but not as she who weds must love you—­be still to me my own dear friend and brother, and Ella will love you as she ever has.  Ask not for more.”  She left me, and I saw a tear-drop gem the silken braid on her cheek, and thus my dream of beauty burst.  My spirit’s light grew dark as the treasured spell which bound me broke.  Some hours passed in agony, such as none could feel but those who loved as I did—­so deep, so fondly.

As I approached my home the warm evening light was streaming from the windows, and I heard her rich voice thrilling its wild melody.  Every brow smiled upon her:  even Conrad’s was unbent.  I looked upon her, and prayed she might never know a grief like mine.  The ringing music of her laugh greeted my entrance, and ere the night had passed she charmed away my woe.

While these things occurred with us, the aspect of the times without had changed.  America made war with England.  What were her injuries we asked not, but ’twas not likely that we, come of a race who loved so well their “fatherland and king,” would join with those who had risen against theirs.  As yet the crisis was not come, and in New York British power was still triumphant.

Among the many festivities given by the officers, naval and military, then in the country, was a splendid ball on board a British frigate then in the harbour.  To this scene of magic beauty and delight I accompanied Ella—­’twas but a few days after that unhappy first of May; but the buoyant spirits of youth are soon rekindled, and Ella yet, I thought, might love me.  The scene was so new, and withal so splendid in its details, that it comes before me now fresh and undimmed.  The night was one of summer’s softest, earliest beauty:  the moonlight slept upon the still waters, and the tall masts, with all their graceful tracery of spar and line, were bathed with rich radiance, mingled with the hundred lights of coloured lamps, suspended from festoons of flowers; low couches stood along the bulwarks of the noble ship, and the meteor flag of England, which waved so oft amid the battle and the breeze, now wafted its ruby cross o’er fair forms gliding through the dance, to the rich strains of merry music—­’twas an hour that sent glad feeling to the heart.  The gay dresses and noble bearing of the military officers, all glistening in scarlet and gold, contrasted well with the white robes and delicate beauty of the fair girls by their sides.  But they had their rivals in the gallant givers of the fete.  Many a lady’s heart was lost that night.  “What is it always makes a sailor so dangerous a rival?” Ella used to say, when rallied on her partiality for a “bluejacket,” that she loved it because it was the colour of so many things dear to her:  the sky was blue, the waves of the deep mysterious sea were blue, and the wreaths of that fairy flower, which bears the magic name forget-me-not, were of the same charmed hue.  Some such reason, I suppose, it is that makes every maiden love a sailor.