When separated from the delightful companion of his voyage, whose conversation had been so pleasing, Shore, the ever-prosperous hero of one maxim, had, unfortunately, no opportunity of practicing it. His mother had died the year before, and he was thus deprived of the pleasure which he had often looked forward to enjoying in her society. He felt dull and solitary: he had been absent from the country for more than sixteen years, and, doubtless, many of the old friends who had watched his youthful career with interest and satisfaction, had sunk into the grave. His confirmed Indian habits were not quite convenient; he felt the want of sympathy; and, perhaps, he began to make the appalling discovery that it is not good for man to be alone, and that a helpmate would be particularly acceptable. At all events, as fortune had hitherto bestowed upon him success in life, chance now threw a little romance in his way. His younger brother had been educated to the clerical profession, and was at this time residing with his wife near Exeter. Thither Shore――tired of himself, of his London friends, and of walks over Westminster bridge before breakfast in cold November mornings――bent his way. On arrival he found that his brother and sister-in-law were from home; but he found full and complete consolation for their absence. A snow-storm had detained at the house a young lady of great personal attractions, by whom he had the felicity of being courteously received and entertained. Their interview was fatal to any dreams of celibacy in which Shore might have indulged. Suddenly crept around his heart a flame which would have seemed more natural in the gay and gallant inhabitants of places where Italian maidens lean on marble balconies on warm nights, and listen to lovers’ tales, than in the sage and reflecting descendant of the ancient couple, in whose memory “the Shore trees,” sung of by Wordsworth, were planted on the summit of the Oker Hill; and who, moreover, had just exchanged his dwelling amidst the garden-houses of Eastern nabobs for the frost and sleet of an English winter. But if his love was as sudden and inspiring as Romeo’s, it was destined to be more happy in its results. Before the sun had gone down his affections were engaged; he retired to rest, doubtless pondering on what a day may bring forth; he was now as resolute in cultivating his charmer’s favor, as he had formerly been in making himself useful: ere three months had gone over she was his wife; and, during half a century, they had cause to be grateful for the Providential snow-storm.