“Well, fair one! you spoke of _two_ very handsome visitors—the only persons from the main you had ever seen!—_one_ was Miss Brande! Now I have a curiosity to know who was the _other_?” “Why, do you not know?” “No, indeed!” “And can you not guess?” “Not I.” “Well, then, of course it was _yourself_, stranger! Who else, indeed, could it possibly have been?” “Well, if that is not a sincere piece of flattery, I do not know what else it should be called!” said Julius Luxmore, to himself. “Ah! I do wish to go on the beautiful main!” sighed Etoile. “But you have not yet told me, fair child, how—since you have never been near the main—you know it to be so beautiful?” “Oh, sir, you forget! I did! I told you that I saw both shores—dimly, it is true, but I saw them! There is the coast that I call the sunrise shore!—its beach looks like glistening silver! the verdure on its higher swells of land like shining emeralds! and over all the morning sun diffuses a rich, roseate glow! Oh, it is so beautiful even from this distance! and how much more so it must be from a nearer view.” “Whe—ew! the coast of Accommac! a flat reach of sand varied only by starved grass and stunted evergreens. But I suppose the atmospheric magic throws a charm over even that desolate shore,” thought Julius Luxmore, watching with interest the young enthusiast, who ignorant of his secret comments—continued in her strain of sincere, though erring admiration. “And then there is the opposite coast that I call the sunset shore, and that is a thousand times richer, more varied and more beautiful than the other. At different seasons, on different days, and even at different hours, its aspect changes, and each change is lovely or magnificent. Sometimes it looks like a shore of gold, when the refulgent light of sunset glances athwart its sands—sometimes the hues are of amethyst, sometimes of emerald, then of ruby, but always is the color of the coast varied with the ever-changing, ever glorious sunset sky above it.” Even in that pale moonlight, he could see her eyes kindle and glow, as she spoke. And while he listened and gazed in growing admiration of this fair creature, so beautiful, so refined, so cultivated, yet so entirely inexperienced and simple, the boy Frivole reappeared upon the terrace and announced that his master was now ready to give audience to Mr. Luxmore. “That is well,” said Etoile, who had had some doubts upon the subject of the stranger’s reception by the reserved old man. “That is well, and I am glad.” “This way, please sir,” said Frivole, as he bowed and led the way across the rose-terrace, and up the granite steps, through the front portico of the mansion. “My master is in his library,” he continued, as he preceded the visitor down the central hall, until he arrived at the second door on the right hand. “Mr. Luxmore,” he then announced, ushering in the visitor.