The Thousand Isles rise sudden before you, and fringe your yeasty track,
and drop away into floating spectres of beauty, of haze, of distance,
like those dreams of joy that your passion lends the brain. The low
banks of Ontario look sullen by night; and the moon, rising tranquilly
over the tops of vast forests that stand in majestic ranks over ten
thousand acres of shore-land, drips its silvery sparkles along the
rocking waters, and flashes across your foamy wake.
With such attendance, that subdues for the time the dreamy forays of
your passion, you draw toward the sound of Niagara; and its distant,
vague roar, coming through great aisles of gloomy forest, bears up your
spirit, like a child's, into the Highest Presence.
The morning after, you are standing with your party upon the steps of
the hotel. A letter is handed to you. Dalton remarks in a quizzical way,
that "it shows a lady's hand."
"Aha, a lady!" says Miss Dalton,--and _so_ gayly!
"A sister," I say; for it is Nelly's hand.
"By the by, Clarence," says Dalton, "it was a very pretty sister you
gave us a glimpse of at Commencement."
"Ah, you think so;" and there is something in your tone that shows a
little indignation at this careless mention of your fond Nelly; and from
those lips! It will occur to you again.
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