from all I was hourly hearing, the very paragon and pattern of every thing.  If any one was praised for beauty, Clara was immediately pronounced much prettier—­did any one sing, Clara’s voice and taste were far superior.  In our homeward walk, should the shadows of the dark hills fall with a picturesque effect upon the blue lake, some one was sure to say, “Oh! how Clara would like to sketch that.”  In short, there was no charm nor accomplishment ever the gift of woman, that Clara did not possess; or, what amounted pretty much to the same thing, that my relatives did not implicitly give her credit for.  The constantly recurring praises of the same person affect us always differently as we go on in life.  In youth the prevailing sentiment is an ardent desire to see the prodigy of whom we have heard so much—­in after years, heartily to detest what hourly hurts our self-love by comparisons.  We would take any steps to avoid meeting what we have inwardly decreed to be a “bore.”  The former was my course; and though my curiosity was certainly very great, I had made up my mind to as great a disappointment, and half wished for the longed arrival as a means of criticising what they could see no fault in.

The wished-for evening at length came, and we all set out upon a walk to meet the carriage which was to bring the bien aime Clara among us.  We had not walked above a mile when the eager eye of the foremost detected a cloud of dust upon the road at some distance; and, after a few minutes more, four posters were seen coming along at a tremendous rate.  The next moment she was making the tour of about a dozen uncles, aunts, cousins, and cousines, none of whom, it appeared to me, felt any peculiar desire to surrender the hearty embrace to the next of kin in succession.  At last she came to me, when, perhaps, in the confusion of the moment, not exactly remembering whether or not she had seen me before, she stood for a moment silent—­a deep blush mantling her lovely cheek—­masses of waving brown hair disordered and floating upon her shoulders—­her large and liquid blue eyes beaming upon me.  One look was enough.  I was deeply —­irretrievably in love.

“Our cousin Harry—­Harry Lorrequer—­wild Harry, as we used to call him, Clara,” said one of the girls introducing me.

She held out her hand, and said something with a smile.  What, I know not—­nor can I tell how I replied; but something absurd it must have been, for they all laughed heartily, and the worthy papa himself tapped my shoulder jestingly, adding,

“Never mind, Harry—­you will do better one day, or I am much mistaken in you.”

Whether I was conscious that I had behaved foolishly or not, I cannot well say; but the whole of that night I thought over plans innumerable how I should succeed in putting myself forward before “Cousin Clara,” and vindicating myself against any imputation of schoolboy mannerisms that my first appearance might have caused.