“How lovely is nature in all her varieties!” exclaimed Ella, with animation, as she glanced over the scene.

“Ay, and in that variety lies her loveliness,” answered Algernon.  “It is the constant and eternal change going forward that interests us, and gives to nature her undying charm.  Man—­high-souled, contemplative man—­was not born to sameness.  Variety is to his mind what food is to his body; and as the latter, deprived of its usual nourishment, sinks to decay—­so the former, from like deprivation of its strengthening power, becomes weak and imbecile.  Again:  as coarse, plain food and hardy exercise add health and vigor to the physical—­so does the contemplation of nature in her wildness and grandeur give to the mental a powerful and lofty tone.  Of all writers for poetical and vigorous intellects, give me those who have been reared among cloud-capped hills, and craggy steeps, and rushing streams, and roaring cataracts; for their conceptions are grand, their comparisons beautiful, and the founts from which they draw, as exhaustless almost as nature herself.”

“I have often thought the same myself,” returned Ella; “for I never gaze upon a beautiful scene in nature, that I do not feel refreshed.  To me the two most delightful are morning and evening.  I love to stand upon some eminence, and mark, as now, the first gray, crimson and golden streaks that rush up in the eastern sky; and catch the first rays of old Sol, as he, surrounded by a reddened halo, shows his welcome face above the hills; or at calm eve watch his departure, as with a last, fond, lingering look he takes his leave, as ’twere in sorrow that he could not longer tarry; while earth, not thus to be outdone in point of grief, puts on her sable dress to mourn his absence.”

“Ah!  Ella,” said Algernon, turning to her with a gentle smile, “methinks morning and evening are somewhat indebted to you for a touch of poetry in their behalf.”

“Rather say I am indebted to them for a thousand fine feelings I have not even power to express,” rejoined Ella.

Algernon was on the point of returning an answer, when, casting his eyes down into the ravine, he slightly started, his gaze became fixed, and his features grew a shade more pale.  Ella noticed this sudden change, and in a voice slightly tremulous inquired the cause.  For nearly a minute Algernon made no reply, but kept his eyes steadily bent in the same direction, apparently riveted on some object below.  Ella also looked down; but seeing nothing worthy of note, and growing somewhat alarmed at his silence, was on the point of addressing him again, when, slightly turning his head, and rubbing his eyes with his hand, he said: 

“Methought I saw a dark object move in the hollow below; but I think I must have been mistaken, for all appears quiet there now—­not even a limb or so much as a leaf stirs.  Lest there should be danger, however, dear Ella, I will ride down first and ascertain.  If I give an alarm, turn your horse and do not spare him till you reach Wilson’s.”