Elinor Clare was an excellent young lady—­discreet, intelligent, and affectionate.  Allan revered her as a parent, while he loved her as his own familiar friend.  He told all the little secrets of his heart to her—­but there was one, which he had hitherto unaccountably concealed from her—­namely, the extent of his regard for Rosamund.

Elinor knew of his visits to the cottage, and was no stranger to the persons of Margaret and her granddaughter.  She had several times met them, when she had been walking with her brother—­a civility usually passed on either side—­but Elinor avoided troubling her brother with any unseasonable questions.

Allan’s heart often beat, and he has been going to tell his sister all—­but something like shame (false or true, I shall not stay to inquire) had hitherto kept him back;—­still the secret, unrevealed, hung upon his conscience like a crime—­for his temper had a sweet and noble frankness in it, which bespake him yet a virgin from the world.

There was a fine openness in his countenance—­the character of it somewhat resembled Rosamund’s—­except that more fire and enthusiasm were discernible in Allan’s; his eyes were of a darker blue than Rosamund’s—­his hair was of a chestnut color—­his cheeks ruddy, and tinged with brown.  There was a cordial sweetness in Allan’s smile, the like to which I never saw in any other face.

Elinor had hitherto connived at her brother’s attachment to Rosamund.  Elinor, I believe, was something of a physiognomist, and thought she could trace in the countenance and manner of Rosamund, qualities which no brother of hers need be ashamed to love.

The time was now come when Elinor was desirous of knowing her brother’s favorite more intimately—­an opportunity offered of breaking the matter to Allan.

The morning of the day in which he carried his present of fruit and flowers to Rosamund, his sister had observed him more than usually busy in the garden, culling fruit with a nicety of choice not common to him.

She came up to him, unobserved, and, taking him by the arm, inquired, with a questioning smile—­“What are you doing, Allan? and who are those peaches designed for?”

“For Rosamund Gray”—­he replied—­and his heart seemed relieved of a burden which had long oppressed it.

“I have a mind to become acquainted with your handsome friend—­will you introduce me, Allan?  I think I should like to go and see her this afternoon.”

“Do go, do go, Elinor—­you don’t know what a good creature she is; and old blind Margaret, you will like her very much.”

His sister promised to accompany him after dinner; and they parted.  Allan gathered no more peaches, but hastily cropping a few roses to fling into his basket, went away with it half-filled, being impatient to announce to Rosamund the coming of her promised visitor.

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