The affair with the count at Newport had not terminated to the satisfaction of Miss Mills, he having soon transferred his attentions to a New York belle, not rich, compared to Ella, and a “perfect fright,” in the judgment of her rival. But even the new attraction was but a very temporary affair. Ella was approaching the dreaded state which even friends may designate as that of old maid, and she had just begun to make up her mind to marry Albert when she heard of his engagement. This was unexpected, but she said to herself, “Engagement is one thing, and marriage another.” When he came home at the summons of his father, he was so greatly changed, so infinitely improved, that flirting with him had all the charm of novelty, beside the greater charm involved in the fact of his indifference to the battery of wiles that had once been so potent. She looked very young still. Her mind was youthful enough in its character, and she had preserved all the innocent, kittenish ways that are so irresistible to a certain class of men. While Albert talked of his old flame, on the evening in question, Clara listened intently, looking all the time straight into his eyes. At length he asked her why she studied his eyes so earnestly. “Do you not like me to study them?” “What a question! But I wish to know what you are thinking. You told me once you were afraid of my eyes.” “That is what I am thinking to-night, Albert. They are surely the brightest eyes in the world, as you know they are the dearest to me. I can find no fault with them; and yet I have an indefinable fear sometimes, when I look into them, as if they could be cold and cruel. I reproach myself, but I tell you every thought. Ought I to tell you this?” “Yes, for I would hear all the voices of the sea, darling mine; but this voice is a delusion. Albert can never be cold to you. You are his very soul. He could die for you, and count it no sacrifice; and he only cares for life that he may make yours beautiful.” “Forgive me, beautiful eyes!” Clara said, tenderly caressing their lids. “Can _you_ forgive me, Albert?” “There is no such thing as forgiveness between lovers, for they can do each other no wrong.” “I dare not think how perfect my happiness is,” said Clara, fervently, “and yet I can think of nothing else. I am constantly studying love. It seems to me that all married people lose their illusions. Papa and mamma were once romantic lovers. I have lately found a number of his old letters. I could not resist reading some of them. They are the most fervent and tender letters I ever read in my life—except yours, dearest—and yet they are flung away ‘amid the old lumber of the garret,’ like the oaken chest where Ginevra found a grave. It is strange! After all that divine passion, they could be separated for weeks and months without any suffering for the need of each other!”