Charles, carrying letters of introduction to persons of some consideration, and having good credit at his bankers, soon found himself admitted into circles of the _élite_ in England, France and Italy. But every where did he carry about with him his vivid remembrance of Edith the young and the loving. Unlike most heroes, he met with no stirring adventures—no “accidents by flood or field”—no titled dames sued for his love. He traversed England—knew London and its lions—admired its gems; dwelt long enough in Paris to speak intelligently; sailed down the Rhine; crossed the Simplon, and spent some time at Florence, Naples, Venice, and at last settled down in Rome, to drag through the second winter of his probation in Europe. And most constant had he been all this time, thinking on Edith by day—dreaming of her by night, and repeatedly sending his missives of love o’er the broad Atlantic, laden with sighs sufficient to waft the bark of itself had not _steam_ deigned to assist him. It was in the month of March, when Lennard fell ill at Rome. Alone—recluse and dreamy still in his habits—he had made but few acquaintances, and would, I think, have fared but badly had it not been for the attention of an American family, like himself, sojourning in the “imperial city.” Mr. Ashton, wife and daughter, were unremitting in their kindness to the invalid, the former watching him with a parent’s care, and the daughter cheering and amusing him during the listless and languid weeks of his slow convalescence. Isabel, or rather Bel Ashton, was not beautiful; but there was that nameless charm around her which often attaches more powerfully than mere beauty. Partly educated in Europe, she had passed much of her time in Paris and other cities of the continent, and possessed by _des habitudes_, and by nature, that “Grace of motion and of look—the smooth And swimming majesty of step and tread; The symmetry of form, which set The soul afloat, even like delicious airs Of flute and harp.”