had done, in hearing from the Duke himself all her lover’s exertions and anxiety, till he obtained some clue to the place where she was detained, vivid images were continually brought up before her mind of things that were most sweet to contemplate.  When she retired to her own chamber, although she strove, at her father’s request, to obtain sleep, those sweet but agitating images followed her still, and every word, and tone, and look of him she loved, returned to her memory, and banished slumber altogether from her pillow.

On whatever part of his conduct memory rested, to the eyes of affection it seemed all that could be desired.  If she thought of him standing boldly in the presence of superior numbers—­calm, cool, unintimidated, decided; or if she recalled his conduct to the Duke of Berwick, generously risking all rather than not repay that nobleman’s gallant interposition in his favour by similar efforts in his behalf; or if she recollected his behaviour to herself; when alone under his care and guidance, the tenderness, the gentleness, the delicate forbearance, the consideration for all her feelings, and for every difficult point of her situation which he had displayed—­each part of his behaviour seemed to her partial eyes all that she could have dreamed of excellent and good, and each part stood out in bright apposition with the other; the gentle kindness contrasting strongly with the firm and courageous determination; the generous and unhesitating protection of an upright and gallant enemy, seeming but the more bright from his calm and prudent bearing towards a body of low-minded and ill-designing traitors.

Thus, during the time that she remained alone, her thoughts were all of him, and those thoughts were all sweet.  Gratitude, it is true, might derive a great portion of its brightness from love:  but Laura fancied that she had not said half enough in return for all that he had done in her behalf:  she fancied that she had scarcely spoken her thanks sufficiently warmly, and she longed to see him again, to talk over all that had taken place, to assure him of her deep, deep gratitude, and, perhaps—­though she did not acknowledge that purpose to her own heart—­to assure him also still more fully of her unchanging affection.  Laura had never felt, even in the least degree, what love is before.  She was not one of the many who trifle away their heart’s brightest affections piece by piece.  She had given her love all at once, and the sensation was the more overpowering.

At length, then, as the hour approached when she supposed he might be likely to return, she rose and dressed herself, and perhaps that day she thought more of her beauty than she had ever done before in life; but it was not with any vain pleasure; for she thought of it only inasmuch as it might please another whom she loved.  We can all surely remember how, when in the days of our childhood we have had some present to give to a dear friend, we have looked at it and