Weeks passed, and Mr. Vernon still remained a guest at Flower Farm, as it was called. He entered into negotiations for a tract of land in the neighbourhood, and found pleasant occupation in hunting, fishing, and planning his house and grounds. Sibella and the children often accompanied him in his excursions. The wide-spread prairie, covered with a thick carpet of grass and brilliant flowers, and dotted with isolated groves, like islands, charmed him with its novelty of beauty. “I am perpetually astonished by the profusion and gorgeousness of nature in this region,” said he. He gathered one of the plants at his feet, and presenting it to Sibella, asked whether that glowing blossom was not appropriately named the Torch Flower. “What do you think of dreams?” she replied; then seeing that he was surprised by the abruptness of the question, she told him she had dreamed, the night before his arrival, that she met him on the prairie, and received a torch-flower from his hand. He smiled, and said, “Its flame-colour might answer for Hymen’s torch.” He looked at her smilingly as he spoke; for he was bolder now than when he wrote the verses. Seeing the crimson tide mount into her cheeks, he touched the flower in her hand, and said, “It blushes more deeply than my old favourite the Eglantine.” To relieve her embarrassment, Sibella began to inquire about Mrs. Barton and her neighbours; adding, “Among all these questions, I have not yet asked if your sister is living.” “She is what the world _calls_ living,” he replied. “She has married a wealthy old merchant, who dresses her in velvet and diamonds; and his lady rewards him by treating him with more indifference than she does her footman. Her acquaintance envy her elegant furniture and costly jewels; and when they exclaim, ‘How fortunate you are! You are surrounded by every thing the heart can desire!’ she replies, with a languid motion of her fan, ‘Yes, every thing--_except_ love.’ Julia never forgave me for marrying the daughter of a poor curate; but she was like _you_, Sibella, and that was what first interested me. If _she_ had lived, I probably should never have seen America; but after her death, I was lonely and restless. I wanted change. I knew that you had been in this country several years; but I cannot say you were distinctly connected with my plans. You never answered my letters, and I supposed you had long since forgotten me. But I never saw an Eglantine without thinking of you; and while I was crossing the Atlantic, I sometimes found myself conjecturing whether I should ever happen to meet you, and whether I should find you married.” Long explanations and confessions followed. The authorship of the mysterious verses was acknowledged, and their preservation avowed. The conversation was exceedingly interesting to themselves, but would look somewhat foolish on paper. It has been well said, that “the words of lovers are like the rich wines of the