between the two.  Nature seemed to have given the more tender soul to Elfonzo, and the stronger and more courageous to Ambulinia.  A deep feeling spoke from the eyes of Elfonzo —­such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who are blessed as admirers, and by those who are able to return the same with sincerity of heart.  He was a few years older than Ambulinia:  she had turned a little into her seventeenth.  He had almost grown up in the Cherokee country, with the same equal proportions as one of the natives.  But little intimacy had existed between them until the year forty-one—­because the youth felt that the character of such a lovely girl was too exalted to inspire any other feeling than that of quiet reverence.  But as lovers will not always be insulted, at all times and under all circumstances, by the frowns and cold looks of crabbed old age, which should continually reflect dignity upon those around, and treat unfortunate as well as the fortunate with a graceful mien, he continued to use diligence and perseverance.  All this lighted a spark in his heart that changed his whole character, and like the unyielding Deity that follows the storm to check its rage in the forest, he resolves for the first time to shake off his embarrassment and return where he had before only worshiped.

It could not escape Ambulinia’s penetrating eye that he sought an interview with her, which she as anxiously avoided, and assumed a more distant calmness than before, seemingly to destroy all hope.  After many efforts and struggles with his own person, with timid steps the Major approached the damsel, with the same caution as he would have done in a field of battle.  “Lady Ambulinia,” said he, trembling, “I have long desired a moment like this.  I dare not let it escape.  I fear the consequences; yet I hope your indulgence will at least hear my petition.  Can you not anticipate what I would say, and what I am about to express?  Will not you, like Minerva, who sprung from the brain of Jupiter, release me from thy winding chains or cure me—­” “Say no more, Elfonzo,” answered Ambulinia, with a serious look, raising her hand as if she intended to swear eternal hatred against the whole world; “another lady in my place would have perhaps answered your question in bitter coldness.  I know not the little arts of my sex.  I care but little for the vanity of those who would chide me, and am unwilling as well as shamed to be guilty of anything that would lead you to think ‘all is not gold that glitters’; so be not rash in your resolution.  It is better to repent now than to do it in a more solemn hour.  Yes, I know what you would say.  I know you have a costly gift for me—­the noblest that man can make —­your heart! you should not offer it to one so unworthy.  Heaven, you know, has allowed my father’s house to be made a house of solitude, a home of silent obedience, which my parents say is more to be admired than big names and high-sounding titles.  Notwithstanding all