You have talked with Miss Dalton about Byron, about Wordsworth,
about Homer. You have quoted poetry to Miss Dalton; you have clasped
Miss Dalton's hand!
Her conversation delights you by its piquancy and grace; she is quite
ready to meet you (a grave matter of surprise!) upon whatever subject
you may suggest. You lapse easily and lovingly into the current of her
thought, and blush to find yourself vacantly admiring when she is
looking for reply. The regard you feel for her resolves itself into an
exquisite mental love, vastly superior, as you think, to any other kind
of love. There is no dream of marriage as yet, but only of sitting
beside her in the moonlight during a countless succession of hours, and
talking of poetry and nature, of destiny and love.
Magnificent Miss Dalton!
----And all the while vaunting youth is almost mindless of the presence
of that fond Nelly whose warm sisterly affection measures itself
hopefully against the proud associations of your growing years,--and
whose deep, loving eye, half suffused with its native tenderness, seems
longing to win you back to the old joys of that Home-love, which linger
on the distant horizon of your boyhood like the golden glories of a
sinking day.
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