Such was Richard Rolfe, when he commenced the practice of the law, and such was he, when fate threw him in the company of a gentle being, who, unwittingly to herself, initiated him into the mysteries of that delicious passion, which, Burns says, “in spite of bookworm philosophy, and acid disappointment, I pronounce to be nature's dearest gift, our greatest blessing here below.” He loved, and what southerner, who has arrived at the age of twenty, has not? “The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name; But his was like the lava flood, That boils in Ætna's breast of flame.” He loved—the expression seems cold when used to characterize a passion deep, ardent, and intense, as was that of Rolfe—and still she was neither a sylph, nor a fairy, nor an angel, but merely flesh and blood, cast in nature's prettiest mould—“a sweet, sonsie, bonnie lass.” Her eyes were hazel, and she was a gentle, quiet little creature, well calculated to rob you of your peace, without your ever dreaming even for a moment that she intended it. Her hair—a poet would have called it auburn—was rich, and glossy, and fell curling and clustering beautifully down her shoulders, forming a rich drapery for the loveliest face my eyes ever beheld. A face, not brilliant, nor splendid, nor even pretty; no, these are not the epithets which would have characterized it; but it was lovely, and gentleness and purity held dominion there, and cheerfulness often came, and still had it been wanting, she would not have been melancholy. As I said before, she was a quiet, gentle creature, and seemed unfit for the cold and selfish world in which she was destined to play her part. With these qualities, she was intellectual, without being too much book learned, kind without seeming to intend it, and artless without affectation. Not a dog but read her countenance aright, and would follow her until he obtained his dinner; not a servant, but loved her more than any member of her family. She was not a showy girl, and yet a stranger would have admired her without knowing why, and though placed in a room graced by beauty and fashion alone, and in the most retired part of it, a place she always sought, he could scarcely have passed without inquiring who she was. Perhaps the charm lay in her retiring and timid manner. Her entrance into the world was like the mountain daisy, “scarce glinting forth amid the storm,” or it was like the first rose of spring, half blown, which comes out blushing at its own appearance, and nestling for concealment among the leaves which surround it. She was sweet fifteen—the spirit of love—whom to see, was to love, and who could not live without loving; playful as a child, with a disposition warm and confiding; and Rolfe loved her; she was, indeed, “the ocean to the river of his thoughts.” And did she love him? “She never told her love.”