“They consist of some of those errors of disposition that often produce the misery of mankind—false-pride, want of confidence, anger, jealousy—” “But what is jealousy?” asked she, interrupting her father. “Decidedly the greatest evil of the whole—’tis the bane to all happiness. It is a want of that confidence which, did we not deny its sway, would give to love a permanence that we seldom find on earth.” “Dear me! I am sure I shall never be jealous,” said Mary. “Never suspect the truth and constancy of the individual in whose hands you are willing to place your happiness. Let nothing induce you to think that another shares his affection.” “I never will. I may love, as it seems, such a universal thing if it be only to please you and uncle Pluribusi, but I can never be jealous.” CHAPTER V. “Bright blown hopes dispersed in air.” What is there more beautiful than the first love of a young heart? every thought is fresh and pure, the poetry of life has not yet been crushed out of the soul—then it is we love with an intensity such as we never feel again. It was thus that our heroine loved. Every thing Harry had done, and every thing he had said, had been treasured, and had become, as it were, unquestioned oracles with her. The flowers he had loved, now possessed a fragrance hitherto undiscovered; and the landscape he had praised, appeared more elegant than it had ever done before. The poetry he had read to her, she now read so often, that she could repeat every line. Sometimes she questioned her heart, why it turned so instinctively toward one who was comparatively a stranger, for the gratification of all its cherished feelings. She was perfectly sure that love had no share in what she felt, notwithstanding uncle Pluribusi’s hints to the contrary, or her father’s wishes that it might be so—love was entirely out of the question, for he had never spoken of love to her, and she could never love unbidden; though, to be sure, his eyes had often spoken a language far more expressive than his lips could have done. The summer months passed away; the green leaves fell from the trees, and the bleak sea-breeze swept through the deserted garden, yet Mary had never received tidings of Harry. Then came winter, spreading over nature its wings laden with frosts and storms. The winter of life resembles the winter of the year—both have their withering storms, and both take the place of sweet summer, of roses and hopes, and the dreams of youth.