choly which she had never felt before. She could not define her own sensations; she could not analyze her thoughts; and, as she sauntered to and fro without any determinate object, she listlessly pulled the leaves from a rose that she carried in her hands.
The scattering of the rose-leaves, however, recalled her to herself, and she smiled as she saw the mischief she had done. "Alas! poor rose!" sighed she, apostrophizing the flower; "I know not why I have destroyed thee!" Then walking hastily away, she plunged into the thickest part of the grove. "Why am I thus agitated?" said she to herself. "Why do I feel thus miserable and discontented? Can it be love? Love!" she repeated, whilst deep blushes glowed upon her cheeks, and she started at the echo of her own voice. She threw herself upon a turfy bank under a shady tree, and, resting her head upon her hand, watched through the leaves the light fleecy clouds that drifted along the sky, till, oppressed by the painful nature of her own sensations, she sighed heavily, and tears swam in her eyes.
