And I, like a shy, timid dove, That shuns noon's fervid beaming, And far within the silent grove, Sits, lost in loving dreaming-- Turn, half in joy, and half in fear, From thine ambitions soaring, And seek to hide me from the glare, That o'er thy track is pouring. I cannot echo back the notes Of triumph thou art pealing, But from my woman's heart there floats The music of one feeling, One single, longing, pleading moan, Whose voice I cannot smother-- "Love me--love me!" its song alone, And it will learn no other! There was a long stillness. Carry was weeping silently. She was a novice to the world, and believed that many were guileless and loving as herself; but she felt, as she listened to this enthusiastic outflow from ice-girt depths, unfathomable to her, unsuspected by others, that terrible woe was in reserve for the heart so suddenly unveiled. There was, about Ida, when her real character came into action, an earnestness of passion and sentiment that forbade the utterance of trite counsels or cautions; the tide would have its way, and one must abide its ebb in patience. Her first words showed that it had retired. "I appear strangely fitful to your gentle little self, dear one. It is seldom that I yield to these humours. You have pierced to the bottom of my heart to-night;" linking her arm again in Carry's. "Forget my vehemence, and believe me if you will, the iceberg people say I am." "Never! oh, Ida! Why do yourself such injustice? Why not let your friends know that you have feeling? They would love you but the more." "Do not believe it. I should be sent to the Insane Hospital. Hearts are at a discount in the market just now, and hypocrisy above par." "There you go!" exclaimed Carry. "One moment all softness--the next, an ocean is between us. Contradictory enigma! If I loved you less, I should be angry. You read every leaf of my heart as easily as you unfold a newspaper; and just as I fancy that I have the key to yours, it is shut close--a casket, whose spring I cannot find." "Or like an oyster," said Ida. "Apropos de bottes--here come the candles, harbingers of supper, and I hear our brace of Esculapii, upon the porch, ready to discuss it."