inquired her other name, and they told him it was Flower. He thought it an exceedingly poetic and appropriate name; as most young men of twenty would have thought, under similar circumstances. He noticed the sequestered lanes where she best loved to rove, when sent out with the children for exercise; and those lanes became his own favourite places of resort. Wild flowers furnished a graceful and harmless topic of conversation; yet Love made even those simple things his messengers. Patrician Edward offered the rustic Sibella an Eglantine, saying, “This has a peculiar charm for me, above all flowers. It is so fragrant and delicately tinted; so gracefully untrained, and so modest in its pretensions. It always seems to me like a beautiful young maiden, without artificial culture, but naturally refined and poetic. The first time I saw you, I thought of a flowering Eglantine; and I have never since looked at the shrub, without being reminded of you.” She listened, half abashed and half delighted. She never saw the flower again without thinking of _him_. The next day after this little adventure, she received a copy of Moore’s Melodies, with her name elegantly written therein. The songs, all sparkling with fancy and warm with love, were well suited to her sixteen years, and to that critical period in her heart’s experience. She saw in them a reflection of her own young soul dreamily floating in a fairy-boat over moon-lighted waters. The mystery attending the gift increased its charm. The postman left it at the door, and no one knew whence it came. Within the same envelope was a pressed blossom of the Eglantine, placed in a sheet of Parisian letter-paper, gracefully ornamented with a coloured arabesque of Eglantines and German Forget-me-nots. On it the following verses were inscribed:-- TO SIBELLA FLOWER. There is a form more light and fair, Than human tongue can tell, It seems a spirit of the air. She is a flower _si belle_! The lovely cheek more faintly flushed Than ocean’s rosy shell, Is like a new-found pearl that blushed, She is a flower _si belle_! Her glossy hair in simple braid, With softly curving swell, Might well have crowned a Grecian maid. She is a flower _si belle_! Her serious and dove-like eyes Of gentle thoughts do tell; Serene as summer ev’ning skies. She is a flower _si belle_! Her graceful mouth was outlined free By Cupid’s magic spell, A bow for his sure archery. She is a flower _si belle_! And thence soft silv’ry tones do flow, Like rills along the dell, Making sweet music as they go. She is a flower _si belle_! Fairer still is the modest mind, Pure as a crystal well, In mountain solitude enshrined. She is a flower _si belle_!