“No, my own dark hair, plain—­”

“For mercy sake, Caroline!  Not plain.”

“Yes, my hair plain.”

“And no ornament!”

“O, yes—­a very beautiful one.”

“Ah, that may help a little.  A ray of sunshine on a barren waste.”

“A simple sprig of buds and half blown flowers.”

“The color?”

“White, of course.”

“You are an original, Caroline.  But I suppose I can’t make you change your taste?”

I hope not, Melvina.”

“I am sorry that I shall be compelled to throw you so far in the shade, my little Quakeress friend.  The world will never know half your real worth, Caroline.  You are hiding your light.

“Many a gem of purest ray serene,
The deep unfathomed caves of ocean bear—­
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

And as she repeated these lines, applying them to her friend, Melvina rose to depart.

“You are resolved on trying to make a sensation, then?” said Caroline.

“Of course, and what is more, I will succeed.”

“And win Henry Clarence?”

“I hope so.  He must be made of sterner stuff than I think him, if I do not.”

“Well, we shall see.”

“Yes, we will.  But good-bye; I must go to the mantua-maker’s this morning, to complete my orders.”

After Melvina Felton had gone, Caroline Gay’s manner changed a good deal.  Her cheek, the color of which had heightened during her conversation with her friend, still retained its beautiful glow, but the expression of her usually calm face was changed, and slightly marked by what seemed troubled thoughts.  She sat almost motionless for nearly two minutes, and then rose up slowly with a slight sigh, and went to her chamber.

It was early on the same evening that Henry Clarence, the subject of her conversation with Melvina, called in, as he not unfrequently did, to spend an hour in pleasant conversation with Caroline Gay.  He found her in the parlor reading.

“At your books, I see,” he remarked, in a pleasant tone, as he entered.

“Yes; I find my thoughts need exciting by contact with the thoughts of others.  A good book helps us much sometimes.”

“You were reading a book then.  May I ask its author?”

“Degerando.”

“You are right in calling this a good book, Caroline,” he said, glancing at the title page, to which she had opened, as she handed him the volume.  “Self-education is a most important matter, and with such a guide as Degerando, few can go wrong.”

“So I think.  He is not so abstract, nor does he border on transcendentalism, like Coleridge, who notwithstanding these peculiarities I am yet fond of reading.  Degerando opens for you your own heart, and not only opens it, but gives you the means of self-control at every point of your exploration.”

The beautiful countenance of Caroline was lit up by pure thoughts, and Henry Clarence could not help gazing upon her with a lively feeling of admiration.