The young clergyman very readily undertook the commission, and throwing open a door from the drawing-room, he led the delighted girl into a sweet wilderness of flowers and fragrance. Three weeks glided by almost imperceptibly, for Jessie Lincoln had never experienced such a full tide of happiness. The cool, fresh country zephyr kissed her cheeks, and there crept over them a delicious tinting, delicate as the blush of a rose-bud. Vigorous exercise, rural walks, and every kind of simple pleasure banished the sickly and languid expression from her face, and with returning health came vigor, vivacity, and joyousness. George and Emilie Jones were unwearied in their devotion to Jessie’s happiness; the Varleys had outdone everybody in promises of attention and politeness, especially Miss Charlotte, who found very frequent occasion to watch for any indications of Mr. Style’s preference of Jessie before herself. Poor Charlotte! she longed to read his heart; the indifference, nay, positive aversion she would have discovered there, would have been “the gall of bitterness” to her own, for she was deeply and desperately in love, if ever a silly young woman was, and a breath could have fanned her electrical jealousy into an uncontrollable flame. She would have given the last farthing of her fortune for an assurance of affection from the young minister. Alas! he never gave her any; yet at this juncture, without the slightest reason to believe he regarded her with any other sentiment than the commonest acquaintance, she confidently did believe she had taken him in her toils, and he would soon declare himself her admirer, unless Jessie stood in the way.