But it is an hour----that at which she had now arrived in life's short day--it is an hour of dreams and fairy forms, in the faint, vapoury twilight which lies between the dawn and the full day, when the rising sun paints every mist with gold and rose-colour, and through the very air of your existence spreads a purple light. The tears of that sweet time are but as early dew-drops brightened into jewels by the light of youthful hope, and the onward look of coming years, though kindled with the first beams of passion, knows not the fiery heat of noon, nor can conceive the arid dryness of satiety. Blanche Marie sat and dreamed near her two cousins. At first, she heard some of the words they spoke; but then she listened more to the speakers in her own heart; and then she gave herself up to visions of the future; and the outward creature remained but a fair, motionless statue, unconscious of aught that passed around her, but full of light and ever-varying fancies. How passed the time none of the three knew, but it passed rapidly, and Bianca was awakened from her reveries by the sound of a strange voice, saying, "Pardon, sweet lady," as some one passed her, brushing lightly against her garments, which he could not avoid touching, on his way to Lorenzo's bedside. "Why, how now, Visconti!" exclaimed the new-comer, "What! made a leader, assaulted by an assassin, wounded with a poisoned weapon, vanquisher in the fight, saved by a miracle, and nursed by two beautiful ladies--all in twenty-four hours? By my fay, thou art a favoured child of chivalry indeed!" Blanche Marie looked round at the speaker, roused from her reverie suddenly, but not unpleasantly. There was something joyous, light-hearted, and musical in the voice that spoke, which won favour by its very tone. Oh! there is a magic in the voice, of which we take not account enough. Have you not often marked, reader, how one man in a mixed company will win attention in an instant, not by the matter of his words, not by the manner, but by the mere tone in which they are spoken? Have you not sometimes seen two men striving to gain the ear of a fair lady, and eloquence, and sense, and wit all fail, while sweet tones only have prevailed? The eye and the ear are but sentries on guard, and the fair form and the sweet tone are but as passwords to the camp. Nay, more: some voices have their peculiar harmonies with the hearts of individuals. One will have no sweetness in its tone to many, while to another it will be all melody; and all this is no strange phenomenon; it is quite natural that it should be so. Where is the man to whom the owlet is as sweet a songster as the lark! and who can pass the nightingale on his spray, though he may not pause a moment by the gaudy paroquet? The blackbird's sweet, round pipe, the thrush's evening welcome to the approaching spring, the lark's rejoicing fugue in the blue sky, are all sweet to well-tuned ears; but each finds readier access to some hearts than to others.