In the meanwhile Louis de Montigni and Rose d'Albret, remained for some minutes longer under the archway; and, although apprehension and anxiety had a large share in the fair Lady's feelings, it must not be denied, that there were sweet and happy sensations too. With her arm twined through that of her lover, with her hand clasped in his, she felt all the joy, the thrilling and inexpressible joy of loving, trusting, confiding; and she felt it too for the first time. All the freshness of the young heart was there; that freshness which in all things is the point of perfection,--the moment of expansion to the flower; the hour of ripeness to the fruit, when colour, and beauty, and scent, and flavour, and delight, are all at their full before one petal has fallen or withered, before one tint has faded, before the bloom has been brushed off, before the enjoyment has palled, or the fine edge of sensation has been blunted. There are feelings in the human heart, and they are the brightest of those which have any reference to earth, which are like those small delicate flies, that live but an hour in their beauty, and then pass away, unable to sustain even the weight of the common air; and with Rose d'Albret that was the moment of their existence. She had never before known what it was to give the whole heart, to cling to another, as if in him she had a second life; to look to him for all her future joy; to trust in him for aid, protection and support; to fear for him more than for herself; to believe, her best gift, was to render him happy. The world in which she had lived, was a cold and dreary one; there had been no heart which had sympathies with hers; no voice to reciprocate kind words; no mind with which to exchange the thoughts that were busy in her own. All who surrounded her were different from her in years, in ideas, in feelings, in objects. It was a dark and shadowy state of being, whose only light had been memory, memory of him who now stood beside her till he himself had returned, like her morning star, and the day of love had dawned upon her heart, driving the shades away, and gilding even the clouds, that still hung over the sky. Thus, though dread and apprehension still had some share in her feelings, poor Rose d'Albret was not now without a bright portion of happiness; and the gentle pressure of the hand, the mute caress, the word of tenderness and comfort from her lover's lips, produced sensations in her bosom which he did not know, which, perhaps man never fully knows, in his dealings with woman.