Meanwhile, the beautiful English Flower attracted admirers of various grades. Her parents hoped she would give the preference to a merchant of good character, who was in very prosperous circumstances. She was aware that such a marriage would be a great advantage to them; and she loved them so much, that she wished her beauty could be the means of bringing them prosperity. She tried to love the worthy merchant; but her efforts were unavailing. She was always thinking to herself, “He never writes poetry to me, and he never tells me about the stars. Edward used to gather wild-flowers for me, and bind them so gracefully with wreaths of Ivy. But this gentleman buys hot-house flowers, tied into pyramids on wires. The poor things look _so_ uncomfortable! just as I shall feel, if I consent to be sold and tied up. Ah, if he were only more like Mr. Vernon! I should _like_ to oblige my good father and mother.” The soliloquy ended with humming to herself: “There’s nothing half so sweet in life As Love’s young dream.” When the time came for a definite answer to the merchant, she told her parents she had rather keep school than marry. They looked at each other and sighed; but they asked no questions concerning the memory of her heart. The prospect of owning a farm, combined with an eligible offer for Sibella as a teacher, soon afterward attracted them to the far West. The grandeur and freedom of Nature in that new region, the mighty forests, the limitless prairies, the luxuriant vegetation, produced a sudden expansion in that youthful soul, trained amid the cultivated gardens and carefully clipped hedges of England. Imagination experienced a new birth in poetry, as the heart experiences religion. All that she had previously known of beauty seemed tame and cold compared with the wild charm of that improvised scenery. But more than ever she was oppressed with a sense of mental loneliness. Nature was inspiring, but it had no sympathy with the human soul, which longed for more responsive companionship, more intimate communion. The maiden needed a friend, into whose soul the calm sunset of the prairies would infuse the same holy light that penetrated her own. In such moods, the looks and tones of Edward Vernon came back with vivid distinctness. At times, she longed inexpressibly to know whether he ever had such lively reminiscences of the poor country girl, whom his influence had led into the regions she never dreamed of before. Nature looked at her with the same tranquil smile, and gave no answer. Fortunately, the active duties of life left but few hours for such reveries; otherwise, the abrupt termination of her long dream might have proved as hazardous, as the sudden wakening of a somnambulist. A newly-arrived English emigrant visited her father’s farm. He came from Mrs. Barton’s neighbourhood, and in the course of conversation chanced to mention that Mr. Vernon’s son and daughter were both married.