"Perhaps it may be so," replied Janet; "but at all events you occupied the thoughts of these your admirers at the time that they were writing the verses that you estimate so lightly. I can never hope even for a moment to awaken a fond and favorable thought; I must pass through life unnoticed, even in playfulness, unregarded by all; or, still worse, regarded with pitying scorn." "Why do you indulge this morbid sensibility, my poor Janet?" said Philippa. "You will be sure to be valued in time by those who discover your many and rare excellences. What does the delightful Frederika Bremer say on this subject? There is in the world so much talent, so much ingenuity, prudence, wit, genius; but goodness--pure, simple, divine goodness--where is it to be found?'" "That is the sentiment of a woman, Philippa," replied Janet; "you would never find a man capable of so pure and delicate a feeling, not even our favorite Heathcote; by the way, is Heathcote among your poetical admirers of to-day?" "I have not yet met with anything half dignified and sensible enough to come from such a quarter," said Philippa, scrutinizing, as she spoke, the varying countenance of her friend. "You speak of Heathcote as our favorite, Janet; but I am inclined to suspect that he occupies a much more considerable portion of your thoughts than he does of mine." Philippa was right in her conjecture; the poor little unsightly Janet had dared to love the handsome and popular Heathcote, but it was in silence, in secret, in tears, in humility; not only did she forbear imparting her love to others, but she scarcely dared to own it even to herself. The poet says that "Love will hope where Reason would despair:" but Janet had so much reason, and despaired so wholly and thoroughly, that her love was unvisited by a single ray of hope. True, Heathcote was kind and gentle to her; but so he was to every one. True, he came frequently to the house; but was that surprising when it was the residence of one so fair, so charming, so gifted in every respect as Philippa? Suddenly Philippa uttered an exclamation of delight as she opened a fresh valentine; a little case was inclosed within it, on the outside of which was written "Portrait of my beloved." Philippa lifted the lid, and beheld--her own beautiful features in a looking-glass! "This must be Heathcote's simple and feeling way of avowing his passion," said Janet, with a half-suppressed sigh. "My dear girl," said Philippa, "who ever talks of simple and feeling ways of avowing a passion in these days of sophistication? and why will you persist in imagining Heathcote to be my admirer?" "If he is not now," said Janet, "I think he can hardly fail to be."