a quaker cap?" Mr. Lloyd kissed his little girl, and said nothing. Rebecca's eyes followed the direction of her father's: "Oh, Jane!" she exclaimed, "thou dost not look like mother now, thy cheeks are as red as my new doll's."
The child's observation of her treacherous cheek had certainly no tendency to lessen poor Jane's colour. She would have been glad to hide her face any where, but it was broad daylight, and there was now no escape from the declaration which had been hovering on Mr. Lloyd's lips for some weeks, and which was now made in spite of Rebecca's presence. It cannot be denied, in deference to the opinion of some very fastidious ladies, that Jane was prepared for it; for though the marks of love are not quite as obvious, as the lively Rosalind describes them, yet we believe that except in the case of very wary lovers—cautious veterans—they are first observed by the objects of the passion.
We are warned from attempting to describe the scene to which our little pioneer had led the way, by the fine remark of a sentimentalist, who compares the language of lovers to the most delicate fruits of a warm climate—very delicious where they grow, but not capable of transportation. Much is expressed and understood in a few sentences, which would be quite unintelligible to those whose faculties are not quickened by la grande passion, and who therefore cannot be expected to comprehend the mystics of love.
