Evidently there was something about Magdalen which riveted her attention, for she omitted no opportunity for looking at her when Magdalen did not know it, and at certain turns of the head and flashes of the large, restless eyes which sometimes met hers so suddenly, she found herself perplexed and bewildered, and wondering when or where she had seen eyes like these whose glance she did not like to meet, but which nevertheless kept flashing upon her, and then turning quickly away. Guy, too, caught now and then a familiar likeness to something seen before; but it was not in the eyes or the turn of the head,—it was more in the expression of the mouth and the smile which made Magdalen so beautiful, while there was something in the tone of her voice like another voice which in all the world made the sweetest music for him. He knew of whom Magdalen reminded him, though the faces of the two were no more alike than a brilliant rose and a fair, white water-lily. Still the sight of Magdalen and the silvery ring of her voice brought the absent one very near to him, and made him still kinder and more attentive to the young girl whose champion he had undertaken to be. “Is it still your intention to leave New York to-morrow, or will you give Miss Lennox a day in the city for sight-seeing? I dare say she would like it better than plunging at once into that solitude of rocks and hills and running rills,” Guy said to his aunt, who replied: “I had intended to leave to-morrow. I am beginning to long for the solitude, as you call it, and unless Miss Lennox is very anxious to see the city—” “Of course she is. Every young girl wants to see the Park and Broadway and the picture galleries, especially if she has never been in New York before. But I beg your pardon, Miss Lennox; for aught I know you were born here.” Magdalen had been a close listener to the conversation between the aunt and nephew, and gathered from it that her destination was the country, and she was not to live in the noisy city, which would seem so dreary to her from contrast with the gayeties of last winter, when she was there under very different auspices. She had no desire to see Broadway, or the Park, or the pictures. She had seen them all, with Roger as her escort, and they would look so differently now. So to Mr. Seymour’s suggestion that she was possibly born in New York, she replied: “I was here last winter, and saw, I think, all there is worth seeing. I would rather go at once to ‘the rocks and hills and running rills.’ I feel most at home with nature.” She flashed a bright smile on Guy, who felt his blood tingle a little, while his aunt thought, “I knew her clothes were made in New York;” then to Magdalen she said, “I have many acquaintances in the city. Possibly you may have met some of them, if you were _in society_.”