Such was the condition of things at the period at which our narrative has opened.  Maria Heywood had now been three years an occupant of the cottage, and within that time solitude and habits of reflection had greatly matured her mind, as years had given every womanly grace to her person.  The past had also tended much to form her character, upon which the development of physical beauty so often depends.  At her first debut into society at Charleston, in her fourteenth year—­an age that would have been considered premature, but for the rapidity with which form and intellect are known to ripen in that precocious climate—­she had received, but listened with indifference to the vapid compliments of men whose shallowness she was not slow to detect, and whose homage conveyed rather a fulsome tribute to her mere personal beauty, than a correct appreciation of her heart and understanding.  Not that it is to be inferred that she prided herself unduly upon this latter, but because it was by that standard of conduct chiefly, that she was enabled to judge of the minds of those who evinced so imperfect a knowledge of the female heart, when, emerging from the gaiety of girlhood, it passes into the earnestness of womanly feeling.

But although cold—­almost repellant to all who had poured their ephemeral and seldom varying homage in her ear—­no woman’s heart ever beat with more kind—­more generous—­more devoted sentiments, than her own.  Possessed of a vivid imagination, which the general quietude of her demeanor in a great degree disowned, she had already sketched within her glowing mind her own beau ideal, whose image was a talisman to deaden her heart against the influence of these soulless realities.

With such sentiments as these had Maria Heywood cheerfully consented to accompany her parents to that secluded spot, from which there was little probability of a speedy return; but solitude, so far from weakening the strong impressions that had entwined themselves around her heart, from the moment of her emancipation from childhood, only served to invest them with new power.  The more her feelings repined—­the more expanded her intellect—­the stronger became the sense of absence of one who could enter into, and in some degree, give a direction to all her thoughts and emotions—­sharing with her the rich fruit that springs from the consciousness of kindred associations of mind.  But this was the secret of her own heart—­of the heart of one whose personal attractions were well suited to the rich and overflowing character of her soul, and who had now attained that age which gives eloquent expression to every movement of the ripely moulded form.