An enthusiastic country girl could alone have addressed this rhapsody to a stranger.  A woman of the world with half her talent and moral worth, would have blushed at her imprudence in betraying the romance of her nature.  Juliet was a novice in the world, and she spoke with the simplicity and earnestness of truth.  Godfrey smiled in his heart at her want of tact; yet there was one near him, in whose breast Juliet Whitmore would have found an echo to her own words.

The gentlemen rose to depart, and promised to dine at the Lodge the next day.

“Two fine young men,” said the Captain, turning to his daughter, as the door closed upon his guests.  “Which of them took your fancy most, Julee?”

“They are so much alike—­I should scarcely know them apart.  I liked him the best who most resembled the dear old Colonel.”

“Old!  Miss Juliet.  I hope you don’t mean to call Colonel Hurdlestone an old man!  You will be calling me old next.”

“And not far from the truth if she did,” muttered the old sailor.  “That was the Colonel’s nephew, Julee, Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone.”

“The son of that horrible old miser?  I saw him once and took him for a beggar.  Is it possible that that elegant young man can be his son?”

“I think the case somewhat doubtful,” observed Miss Dorothy.  “I wonder that Colonel Hurdlestone has the effrontery to introduce that young man as his nephew.  Nature herself contradicts the assertion.”

“Dolly, don’t be censorious.  I thought the Colonel was a great friend of yours.”

“He was; but I am not blind,” said Miss Dorothy, with dignity.  “I have altered my mind with regard to that gentleman, and would not become his wife if he were to ask me on his bended knees.”

“I wish he would pop the question,” said the Captain.  “I’d bet my life on’t that he would not have to ask twice!”

“Sir,” replied the lady, casting upon her brother a withering glance, “I never mean to marry a widower—­an uncle—­who brings with him nephews so like himself.”  Miss Dorothy swept from the room, leaving her brother convulsed with laughter.

“Miss Whitmore is not so handsome as I expected to find her, after the fuss that George Braconberry made about her the other night at Wymar’s,” said Godfrey, suddenly pulling up his horse, as they rode home, and addressing his cousin.  “Her figure is delightful, symmetry itself; but her face, she has scarcely one good feature in it.  There is nothing gay or joyous in her expression.  There is an indescribable sadness about those blue eyes which makes one feel grave in a moment.  I wanted to pay her a few compliments by way of ingratiating myself into her good graces; but, by Jove!  I could not look her in the face and do it.  A man must have more confidence than I possess to attempt to deceive her.  I never felt afraid of a woman before.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” returned Anthony.  “To me she is beautiful, exceedingly beautiful.  I would not exchange that noble expression of hers for the most faultless features and blooming complexion in the world.  The dignity of her countenance is the mirror in which I see reflected the beauty of the soul; as the stars picture on the face of the placid stream the heaven in which they dwell.”