"It is rarely in human life," rejoined Douglas, "we realize the inimitable paintings our imaginations form, and less so during the effervescent period of youth. The bright impression glows upon the fancy, ravishes the mental view, but ere long vanishes, and leaves the prospect desolate and forlorn."
"Pardon me," said his friend, "you have struck upon a chord which for one short moment vibrates to a sense of joy. I have beheld an object the prototype of the female I had painted; myself, like the youth in the fable, became instantly enamoured, my ideas absorbed by her image; and in the fervour of a new-born passion, I hovered around this enchantress, as though unable to breathe or to support existence but in the beatitudes of her sphere; but unlike the termination of my story, notwithstanding every attempt I made to be admitted to her presence, the irresistible impulse which impelled me to disclose the powerful yet delicate sentiment, the perfect homage with which her pure loveliness had inspired me, was checked with the harsh-sounding, the prophetic words, jarring like discord in my ears, pronounced by that woman Herbert whose house she inhabited, 'That Miss De Brooke (Rosilia De Brooke was her name,) 'was engaged, from years of infancy, to her son, Edward Herbert'"
"Gracious heavens!" in his turn exclaimed Douglas, half starting from his seat, "Ro—si—lia De Brooke! Was it truly she?"
A sudden paleness overspread his cheeks; recol-
