As the spring and summer glided by, however, there came a change, and when, in the autumn, he left our village for New Haven, there was a happy, joyous look upon his face, while a tress of Cora’s silken hair was lying next his heart. Every week he wrote to her, and Cora answered, always showing to me what she had written, but never a word of his. ‘There was too much love,’ she said, ‘too much good advice in his letters for me to see,’ and thus the time passed on, until Walter, who had entered the junior class, was graduated with honour, and was about to commence a theological course at Andover, for he had made the ministry his choice. He was twenty-one now, and Cora was sixteen. Wondrously beautiful was she to look upon, with her fair young face, her soft brown eyes, and wavy hair. And Walter Beaumont loved her devotedly, believing too, that she in turn loved him, for one summer afternoon, in the green old woods which skirted the little village, she had sat by his side, and with the sunbeams glancing down upon her through the overhanging boughs, she had told him so, and promised some day to be his wife. Still, she would not hear of a positive engagement—both should be free to change their mind if they wished, she said, and with this Walter was satisfied. ‘I have no diamonds to give you, darling,’ he said, drawing her close to him; and Cora, knowing to what he referred, answered that ‘his love was dearer to her than all the world besides.’ Alas, that woman should be so fickle! The same train which carried Walter away, brought Mrs. Blanchard a letter from her daughter, a dashing, fashionable woman, who lived in the city, and who wished to bring her sister Cora ‘out’ the coming winter. ‘She is old enough now,’ she wrote, ‘to be looking for a husband, and of course she’ll never do anything in that by-place.’