The attention of the young lady had been, hitherto, too much engrossed by the necessity of watching her footsteps down the descent, to give much heed to surrounding objects; but, now, she looked up, having reached the comparatively level spot, which extended as far as the second hill or rising ground above mentioned, and felt all the admiration expressed by her companion.

“They are grand,” she replied.  “I have beheld this view a thousand times, and never weary of its beauty.  I do not know whether I love it more in summer or in winter.”

“How would you express the difference of your feelings, then and now?”

“I am afraid I have not the skill to put the feeling into words.  But, the impression, on a day like this, is of a magnificence and splendor unusual to the earth.  In summer, the beauty though less astonishing, is of a softer character.”

“You would rather listen to the song of the robin, and of our northern mocking-bird, than to the roaring of the angry river?”

“There is no anger in the sound, William,” she replied, looking up into his face; “It is the shout of praise to its Creator, and the dashing of the torrents over the rocks are the clapping of its hands.”

“You are right, Faith.  How much better you are tuned to the meanings of nature than I?”

“You do yourself injustice.  It was your love of all this beauty that induced you to invite me to this walk.  Without you I should have missed it, nor known what I had lost.”

William Bernard sighed.  She has not, he thought, the least suspicion that I love her.  She does not know, and would not care if she did, that, by her side, the only prospect I behold is herself, and the invitation to this stroll but a pretext to approach her.

“Your presence, dear Faith,” said he, “imparts a double charm to the scenery.”

“It is sweet,” she answered, leaning, as it seemed to him, at the moment, more affectionately on his arm, “to have one to whom we can say, how lovely is all this loveliness.”

“The sentiment of the Poet never seemed so true before,” said Bernard, looking at her with admiration.

She made no reply, for her whole soul was absorbed by the view before her.

They had arrived at the platform, which, somewhat higher than the Fall, commands a prospect of the river and surrounding country.  Below them foamed and thundered the torrent, which, first, making a leap some twenty feet down, over large, irregularly-shaped boulders of granite, that strove to oppose its passage, rushed in a steep descent over a bed of solid stone, irregularly worn by the action of the water; and, then, contracting itself between its adamantine walls, burst in distracted fury, like a maniac, from the narrow throat.  Against the opposing rocks, which, perhaps, had fallen into the Yaupaae, when the fierce convulsion of nature opened the chasm, and bade the river pour down the gorge—­the water lashed with ceaseless