Charles Lennard soon made himself perfectly at home with Mrs. Morton and Edith; and his first evening with them passed pleasantly enough to him. He felt himself much attracted by her exquisite beauty; and, as their acquaintanceship progressed, when her mother left the room on household duties, he was much amused by her piquant and original replies to his questions. He found her, too, not uneducated, and, young as she was, a reader and lover of many of his own favorite poets. At the close of the evening, Mrs. Morton requested Edith to sing, and, with a startled look toward Lennard, she left her seat to get the guitar from its case. “Mother, ’tis dreadfully out of tune,” in a tone of entreaty. “Well, Edith, that is soon remedied by your _will_. So, my daughter, do not make any further excuse, but sing to me as usual. Mr. Lennard will excuse the faults when he sees how willing you are to oblige.” Edith bent low over the instrument as she tuned it, and looking up into her mother’s face, as if her shyness was not yet overcome, waited for that mother to tell her to commence. “Are you ready? well, play then my favorite.” And though the young voice was trembling, and not well drilled, yet she warbled her “wood notes wild” with marvelous sweetness; and she blushed with pleasure at Lennard’s seeming enjoyment of her simple music; and her “good-night” to him was as charming as to an acquaintance of longer date, accompanied as it was by such a sweet smile. “What a nice little wife she will make for some one, in days to come,” thought he, as standing by the window overlooking the garden, he found himself musing on the singularly graceful and beautiful child whom he had left. Charles Lennard had no idea at that moment of ever loving Edith Morton. She was too young, too unformed in mind to comprehend him, and to follow, as a kindred spirit, through the abstruse and almost transcendental range of thought, in which he often loved to engage. Delicate in health as in organization, he contented himself for the present to be a spectator in the world rather than actor, and in his day-dreams now weaving bright pictures for the future—pictures in which he was to play a most conspicuous part. We will not say but that a vision also of dazzling eyes, dancing ringlets, and woman’s light form, constituted a part of the reveries of the listless and dreamy student.