The stars are coming out slowly one by one, studding brilliantly the pale, blue vault of heaven, while from a "Thin fleecy cloud, Like a fair virgin veil'd, the moon looks out With such serene and sweet benignity That night unknits his gloomy brows and smiles." Dulce, plucking some pale blossom, lifts it to her lips, and kisses it lightly. Portia, drawing a deep breath of intensest satisfaction, stands quite still, and letting her clasped hands fall loosely before her, contemplates the perfect scene in mute delight. Presently, however, she shivers, a passing breeze has cast a chill upon her. "Ah! you are cold," says Dulce, anxiously; "how thoughtless I am; yes, you are quite pale." "Am I?" says Portia. "It was the standing here, I fancy. India gave me bad habits, that, after three years, I find myself unable to conquer. Every silly little wind strikes a chill to my heart." "I shall get you a shawl in no time," says Dulcinea; "but keep walking up and down while I am away, so as to keep your blood warm." "Your command shall be obeyed," says Portia, smiling, and then Dulce, turning, disappears quickly amongst the shadows, moving as swiftly as her light young feet can carry her. Portia, left alone, prepares to keep her promise, and walks slowly along the graveled path once more. Turning a corner, again a glimpse of the distant lake comes to her. It is entrancing; calm as sleep, and pure as the moon above, whose image lies upon its breast. Even as she looks the image fades--the "fleecy cloud" (jealous, perhaps, of the beauty of the divine Artemis, and of Portia's open admiration of her) has floated over her again, and driven her, for a little moment, into positive obscurity. The path grows dark, the lake loses its color. Portia, with a sigh, moves on, confessing to herself the mutability of all things, and pushing aside some low-lying branches of a heavily-scented shrub, finds herself face to face with a tall young man, who, apparently, is as lost in wonder at her appearance as she is at his! She starts, perceptibly, and, only half-suppressing a faint exclamation of fear, shrinks backwards. "I beg your pardon," says the stranger, hastily. "I am afraid I have frightened you. But, really, it was all the fault of the moon." His voice is reassuring, and Portia, drawing her breath more freely, feels just a little ashamed of her momentary terror.