Miss Beaufort was, indeed, of a character singularly calm and placid; it was the character that charms men in proportion, perhaps, to their own strength and passion. She had been rigidly brought up--her affections had been very early chilled and subdued; they moved, therefore, now, with ease, in the serene path of her duties. She held her parents, especially her father, in reverential fear, and never dreamed of the possibility of resisting one of their wishes, much less their commands. Pious, kind, gentle, of a fine and never-ruffled temper, Camilla, an admirable daughter, was likely to make no less admirable a wife; you might depend on her principles, if ever you could doubt her affection. Few girls were more calculated to inspire love. You would scarcely wonder at any folly, any madness, which even a wise man might commit for her sake. This did not depend on her beauty alone, though she was extremely lovely rather than handsome, and of that style of loveliness which is universally fascinating: the figure, especially as to the arms, throat, and bust, was exquisite; the mouth dimpled; the teeth dazzling; the eyes of that velvet softness which to look on is to love. But her charm was in a certain prettiness of manner, an exceeding innocence, mixed with the most captivating, because unconscious, coquetry. With all this, there was a freshness, a joy, a virgin and bewitching candour in her voice, her laugh--you might almost say in her very movements. Such was Camilla Beaufort at that age. Such she seemed to others. To her parents she was only a great girl rather in the way. To Mrs. Beaufort a rival, to Mr. Beaufort an encumbrance on the property. CHAPTER II. * * * “The moon Saddening the solemn night, yet with that sadness Mingling the breath of undisturbed Peace.” WILSON: City of the Plague * * * “Tell me his fate. Say that he lives, or say that he is dead But tell me--tell me! * * * * * * I see him not--some cloud envelopes him.”--Ibid. One day (nearly a year after their first introduction) as with a party of friends Camilla and Charles Spencer were riding through those wild and romantic scenes which lie between the sunny Winandermere and the dark and sullen Wastwater, their conversation fell on topics more personal than it had hitherto done, for as yet, if they felt love, they had never spoken of it. The narrowness of the path allowed only two to ride abreast, and the two to whom I confine my description were the last of the little band. “How I wish Arthur were here!” said Camilla; “I am sure you would like him.” “Are you? He lives much in the world--the world of which I know nothing. Are we then characters to suit each other?” “He is the kindest--the best of human beings!” said Camilla, rather evasively, but with more warmth than usually dwelt in her soft and low voice.