There was one other circumstance which further blinded Flora to her own imperfections. She had a refined and elegant taste, cultivated and improved by voluminous reading. Her natural love for the beautiful led her to enjoy with enthusiasm all that was perfect in nature or art. The rapture with which fine scenery inspired her, the sensation produced in her by sacred music or burst of eloquence from the pulpit, she mistook, as thousands have done, for proofs of a renewed and pious heart. Could she have doubted her own deeds of charity, she could not doubt her tears of devotion, though the sensibility which called them forth would have been equally excited by a well-acted tragedy. Flora had a talent for poetry, and naturally chose for the usual theme of her verse the most sublime and glorious of subjects, and that which the circumstances of her education and position most constantly presented to her mind. She knew that her sweet hymns were read with delight by her mother, copied out in her handwriting, treasured in her memory, looked upon by the pious lady as evidences that her dearest hopes had been realized in her daughter. Flora’s poetry was regarded as the exposition of her mind. Alas! her writings were far more holy than their authoress! Thus a false opinion was formed of her character, aided in no small degree by the singular sweetness of a face upon which no rude passion had ever traced a line. When the course of duty is down the current of inclination, the leafy branch floats smoothly along the stream. _But that motion is not life;_ that progress is owing to no inherent power in the bough. The least impediment is sufficient to stop it--the smallest eddy to turn it aside! *CHAPTER IV.* *THE RAJAH’S DREAM.* "I made such a discovery!" exclaimed Ada, with a look of triumph, as she entered the drawing-room one morning. "Ah, Flora! demure, sensible, philosophical Flora--you who listen to Alison with such profound attention, and whose brain is a silent library of solid and intellectual literature, I have found you out at last!" "What do you mean?" asked Flora, gaily, while gentle Mrs. Vernon looked up with an expression of inquiry. "You don’t read novels! Oh no; you are too wise! But who keeps Eastern tales in her boudoir, quietly hidden behind a vase of Innocent flowers, to feast upon when nobody sees her?" And Ada displayed a book, in singular binding, which she had carried off from the room of her cousin. "Oh, I have not had time to read it yet! It is a book which Mr. Ward lent me." "Mr. Ward! Now, that is too good! Who would have dreamed of Mr. Ward’s patronizing a new edition of the Arabian Nights?" "My dear," said Mrs. Vernon, "I have no doubt that any book lent by our excellent clergyman will be very improving."