It was all very pretty and poetical, and he knew how to find
pretty, picturesque spots in the woods where the birds and the
flowers helped him to tell his story.
Beatrice found it very pleasant to be worshiped like a queen;
there was no more monotony for her. Every morning she looked
forward to seeing Hugh--to learning more of those words that
seemed to her like sweetest music. She knew that at some time or
other during the day she would see him; he never tired of
admiring her beauty. Blameworthy was the sad mother with her
stern doctrines, blameworthy the proud, neglectful father, that
she knew not how wrong all this was. He loved her; in a thousand
eloquent ways he told her so. She was his loadstar, beautiful
and peerless. It was far more pleasant to sit on the sea shore,
or under the greenwood trees, listening to such words than to
pass long, dreary hours indoors. And none of those intrusted
with the care of the young girl ever dreamed of her danger.
So this was the love her mother dreaded so much. This was the
love poets sung of and novelists wrote about. It was pleasant;
but in after days, when Beatrice herself came to love, she knew
that this had been but child's play.
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