generally, Sophie was as shy as the wild fawn of her native woods, and her large eyes would startle and dilate if she was addressed by any one, yet now those wild shy eyes were ever roving after another pair. As yet she was utterly unconscious of this truantism. At last they met that other pair, and she—_blushed, and looked down? No!_ That belongs to a more sophisticated, a more conventional being than our wild fawn of the Heath. No—a glad, innocent, unconscious smile broke over her face. There was one present who watched her with a dark and lowering brow. Happily Sophie did not perceive the evil eye glowering under it. The evening closed. She retired to rest with an elevated and happy heart. She and Emily slept together in the same old room—the minister occupied his own chamber alone, for Emily did not like to thrust her brother in upon him. So after everybody was gone to rest, Emily prepared a sofa bed in the parlor for her brother. “Emily! Emily! she is charming, charming!” said the young man, as his sister stooped to receive his good night kiss. “That she is, Gusty! Charming! and I am glad you find her so. Good-night.” “He loves you, darling—he loves you _dearly_, _sweet_ darling,” said Emily, hugging her friend to her bosom, “and I am so glad.” CHAPTER VII. YOUNG LOVE. “So gaze met gaze, And heart saw heart, translucid through the rays, One same, harmonious, universal law, Atom to atom, star to star can draw, And heart to heart! Swift darts, as from the sun, The strong attraction, and the charm is done.” THE NEW TIMON. It was such a beautiful morning, such a holiday seeming morning—the green foliage all sparkling with dew in the rays of the early sun, the air vocal, noisy with all sorts of merry sounds, cheerful household sounds, gay woodland music, the crowing of roosters, the cackling of hens, and above all, the merry, merry, merry bursts of melody from the birds. Augustus Wilde and Sophie Churchill sat in the vine-clad porch of Grove Cottage. (Emily was in the dining-room washing up her breakfast things, and the minister was writing his sermon in his room.) “Do you know, Miss Churchill, that I am perpetually in danger of offending against the rules of etiquette, and calling you Sophie, as my sister calls you. Whenever I turn to address you, ‘Sophie’ springs to my lips. I warn you of it that you may not be offended when it comes—why, ‘Sophie’—it just suits you—such a little shy fawn as you are—in every soft wave of your brown hair, in every floating beam of your tender eyes, in every fold of your sober dress ‘Sophie’ is revealed. I must call you Sophie.”