But when he came upon Edith Lyle, in her simple white wrapper, with her perfectly transparent complexion, and the knot of blue ribbon in her golden-brown hair, he acknowledged to himself that here at last, even on English soil, was a woman more beautiful than anything he had ever seen across the water, and he took off his hat and stood uncovered before her as readily as if she had been the queen. That she was only his aunt’s companion, instead of the high-born lady he had at first supposed her to be, made no difference with him. She was a woman, and as he reached the little hill beyond where she was sitting, he turned to look at her again, and said: “By George, father, isn’t she a beauty?” Mr. Schuyler knew to whom his son referred, and answered, in his usual grave, quiet way: “She had a fine profile, I thought. Yes, certainly, a remarkable profile.” They were near the house by this time, and in the excitement of meeting with his sister and the long conversation which followed, Colonel Schuyler hardly thought of Edith again until dinner was announced and she came in with Godfrey. That young man had soon grown tired of listening to talk about people and things dating back to a time he could not remember, and had sauntered out into the grounds in quest of Edith, who was more to his taste than the close drawing-room and the invalid on the couch. Edith was in the summer-house now, and Godfrey joined her there, and in his pleasant, winning way asked if he was intruding, and if he might come in and occupy one of the chairs, which looked so tempting under the green vines. “It was an awful bore to hear old folks talk about a lot of antediluvians,” he said; “and if she did not mind he would sit with her awhile.” Edith nodded assent and motioned him to a chair, which he took, and removing his soft hat and brushing back his curls, he said: “Now let us talk.” To talk was Godfrey’s delight; and to Edith’s interrogatory: “What shall we talk about?” he replied: “Whatever you like;” and when she rejoined: “Tell me of yourself and your home in America,” he mentally pronounced her a fine girl, with no nonsense about her; and in less than an hour had told nearly all he knew of himself and of his family. They had a splendid place in Hampstead, he said, not so big and rambling as the fine houses in England, but pleasanter every way, and more home-like, with such a fine view of the Hudson and the blue mountains beyond. “You have never been in America?” he said, affirmatively, thus saving Edith the necessity of answering, “and so you do not know how beautiful the Hudson is. Why, it beats the Rhine all to nothing.” “Have you seen the Rhine?” Edith asked, smiling at this enthusiastic youth, so wholly American.