This was Leonard's case; and when he kissed the paper which her hand had pressed it was with a consciousness of the strength and sincerity of his affection, which at once rejoiced and fortified his heart. To Margaret his letters were like summer dew upon the herb that thirsts for such refreshment. Whenever they arrived, a head-ache became the cause or pretext for retiring earlier than usual to her chamber, that she might weep and dream over the precious lines. True gentle love is like the summer dew, Which falls around when all is still and hush; And falls unseen until its bright drops strew With odours, herb and flower and bank and bush. O love—when womanhood is in the flush, And man's a young and an unspotted thing, His first-breathed word, and her half-conscious blush, Are fair as light in heaven, or flowers in spring.[3] [Footnote 3: ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.] END OF VOL. II. LONDON: PRINTED BY W. NICOL, CLEVELAND-ROW, ST. JAMES'S.