“Why, Godfrey, my boy!” cried the Colonel, regarding him with parental pride, “What have you been doing with yourself all the morning?”

“Gardening with the jolly old tar, Captain Whitmore; quizzing the old witch, his sister; and making love to his charming daughter.  Upon my word, sir, she is a delightful creature, and sings and plays divinely!  Her personal charms I might have withstood, but her voice has taken me by surprise.  You know that I was always a worshipper of sweet sounds; and this little girl kept her divine gift so entirely to herself, that it was by mere chance that I found out that she could sing.  She was a little annoyed too by the discovery.  I came in upon her unawares, and surprised her in the very act.  She gave herself no affected airs, but when I requested it, not only concluded the song she was singing, but sang many others, in which I was able to accompany her.  The old Captain has insisted upon my bringing my flute over, that I may accompany his Juliet upon the piano.  He could not have done me a greater kindness, and I have no doubt that we shall get on delightfully together.”

“This is hardly right, Godfrey,” said his father, “you promised Anthony to start fair in attempting to win the good opinion of Miss Whitmore, and now you are trying to throw him altogether into the back-ground.”

“Ah, my dear sir, that was all very well in theory, but I found myself unable to reduce it to practice.  I tell you, Anthony, that I am over head and ears in love with Miss Whitmore, and if you wish to die a natural death, you must not attempt to rival me with the lady.”

“And poor Mary—­what will become of her?”

Godfrey flashed an angry glance at his cousin.

“How can you name that peasant in the same breath with Miss Whitmore?”

“A few days ago, Godfrey, you preferred the simple graces of the country girl to the refined lady.”

“My taste is improving, you see,” said Godfrey, filling his glass to the brim.  “And here—­in the sparkling juice of the grape, let all remembrance of my boyish love be drowned.”

Anthony sighed, and sank into a fit of abstraction, while Colonel Hurdlestone joined his son in a bumper to the health of the lady.

In spite of Godfrey’s avowal, Anthony could not bring himself to regard Juliet Whitmore with indifference; nor did he consider it any breach of honor endeavoring to make himself agreeable in her eyes.  His attentions, though less marked than his cousin’s, were of a more delicate and tender nature, appealing less to female vanity, and more directly to her heart and understanding; and there were moments when the young lover fancied that he was not an object of indifference.  The more he saw of the enthusiastic girl, with all her romantic propensities, the more strongly he became attached to her.  Her sins of authorship were undictated by ambition or the mere love of fame; but were the joyous outpourings of an artless mind delighted in having discovered a method of conveying her thoughts to paper, and retaining in a tangible form those delightful visions that so often engrossed her fancy.