also, have been a little intention; for nothing could be more lonely than the nook where they paused. On one side was a thicket of gum cistus, then in the height of its fragile bloom; a shower of white leaves lay on the turf below, one-half had fallen since morning; a willow drooped over the marble balustrade, the long green branches dipping into the stream, and breaking, with their tremulous shadow, the silvery column that the moonlight traced on the water.
Ethel leaned on the balustrade, and gazed down on the river, chiefly to have an excuse for withdrawing her arm from Norbourne's, for she saw nothing of the scene before her. She started, as if from a fiend, at the sense of enjoyment which stole over her at his side; it recalled all her former happiness, but it also recalled how bitterly it had been purchased. The moonlight fell full on her face; and the delicate profile was outlined on the dark clear air like a statue's,—as colourless,—and, Norbourne felt, as cold. For a few minutes he stood, struck less with her perfect
