At length, in a rapidly approaching group, a bright but timid glance met that of Colleton, and curbing in the impetuous animal which he rode, in a few moments he found himself side by side with Miss Munro, who answered his prettiest introductory compliment with a smile and speech, uttered with a natural grace, and with the spirit of a dame of chivalry.

“We have a like object to-day, I presume,” was, after a few complimentary sentences, the language of Ralph—­“yet,” he continued, “I fear me, that our several impulses at this time scarcely so far resemble each other as to make it not discreditable to yours to permit of the comparison.”

“I know not what may be the motive which impels you, sir to the course you take; but I will not pretend to urge that, even in my own thoughts, my route is any more the result of a settled conviction of its high necessity than it may be in yours, and the confession which I shame to make, is perhaps of itself, a beginning of that very kind of self-examination which we seek the church to awaken.”

“Alas, Miss Lucy, even this was not in my thought, so much are we men ignorant of or indifferent to those things which are thought of so much real importance.  We seldom regard matters which are not of present enjoyment.  The case is otherwise with you.  There is far more truth, my own experience tells me, in the profession of your sex, whether in love or in religion, than in ours—­and believe me, I mean this as no idle compliment—­I feel it to be true.  The fact is, society itself puts you into a sphere and condition, which, taking from you much of your individuality, makes you less exclusive in your affections, and more single in their exercise.  Your existence being merged in that of the stronger sex, you lose all that general selfishness which is the strict result of our pursuits.  Your impulses are narrowed to a single point or two, and there all your hopes, fears and desires, become concentrated.  You acquire an intense susceptibility on a few subjects, by the loss of those manifold influences which belong to the out-door habit of mankind.  With us, we have so many resources to fly to for relief, so many attractions to invite and seduce, so many resorts of luxury and life, that the affections become broken up in small, the heart is divided among the thousand; and, if one fragment suffers defeat or denial, why, the pang scarcely touches, and is perhaps unfelt by all the rest.  You have but few aims, few hopes.  With these your very existence is bound up, and if you lose these you are yourselves lost.  Thus I find that your sex, to a certain age, are creatures of love—­disappointment invariably begets devotion—­and either of these passions, for so they should be called, once brought into exercise, forbids and excludes every other.”