Dalton with his party has gone down to Quebec.  He is to return within a few days on his way to Niagara.  There is a letter from Nelly awaiting you.  It says:—­“Mother is much more feeble:  she often speaks of your return in a way that I am sure, if you heard, Clarence, would bring you back to us soon.”

There is a struggle in your mind:  old affection is weaker than young pride and hope.  Moreover, the world is to be faced; the new scenes around you are to be studied.  An answer is penned full of kind remembrances, and begging a few days of delay.  You wander, wondering, under the quaint old houses, and wishing for the return of Dalton.

He meets you with that happy, careless way of his,—­the dangerous way which some men are born to, and which chimes easily to every tone of the world,—­a way you wondered at once; a way you admire now; and a way that you will distrust as you come to see more of men.  Miss Dalton—­(it seems sacrilege to call her Laura)—­is the same elegant being that entranced you first.

They urge you to join their party.  But there is no need of urging:  those eyes, that figure, the whole presence indeed of Miss Dalton, attract you with a power which you can neither explain nor resist.  One look of grace enslaves you; and there is a strange pride in the enslavement.

——­Is it dream, or is it earnest,—­those moonlit walks upon the hills that skirt the city, when you watch the stars, listening to her voice, and feel the pressure of that jewelled hand upon your arm?—­when you drain your memory of its whole stock of poetic beauties to lavish upon her ear?  Is it love, or is it madness, when you catch her eye as it beams more of eloquence than lies in all your moonlight poetry, and feel an exultant gush of the heart that makes you proud as a man, and yet timid as a boy, beside her?

Has Dalton, with that calm, placid, nonchalant look of his, any inkling of the raptures which his elegant sister is exciting?  Has the stout, elderly gentleman, who is so prodigal of his bouquets and attentions, any idea of the formidable rival that he has found?  Has Laura herself—­you dream—­any conception of that intensity of admiration with which you worship?

——­Poor Clarence! it is his first look at Life!

The Thousand Isles with their leafy beauties lie around your passing boat, like the joys that skirt us, and pass us, on our way through life.  The Thousand Isles rise sudden before you, and fringe your yeasty track, and drop away into floating spectres of beauty, of haze, of distance, like those dreams of joy that your passion lends the brain.  The low banks of Ontario look sullen by night; and the moon, rising tranquilly over the tops of vast forests that stand in majestic ranks over ten thousand acres of shore-land, drips its silvery sparkles along the rocking waters, and flashes across your foamy wake.

With such attendance, that subdues for the time the dreamy forays of your passion, you draw toward the sound of Niagara; and its distant, vague roar, coming through great aisles of gloomy forest, bears up your spirit, like a child’s, into the Highest Presence.