It may be remembered, that, on the day of Edmund's triumph, Clara had been forcibly struck by the fine figure and noble appearance of a youth, who had walked as prisoner in the procession. It was Prince Ferdinand; who, having formed a strong intimacy with Lord Edmund, had been an almost constant visitor at the house of Mrs. Montagu ever since. Clara was just at the age when the human mind first begins to feel the want of something to love. In her own family, her affections had been thrown back upon herself; and, being driven to the regions of fancy to find an object to occupy her heart, she would often wander for hours together in the garden, picturing to herself adventures, which she would paint in all the vivid colours of imagination; till, lost in creations of her own, she would almost forget the tame, cold realities of life. Of course, all these imaginary adventures could not exist without a hero; but Clara could never fix upon any definite form to bestow upon him, till she had seen Prince Ferdinand. Then, all her dreams seemed realized; and the secret God of her idolatry appeared to stand before her, in _propriâ personâ_. Clara was now perfectly happy; and as, from the prince's frequent visits to her cousin, she now often passed whole days in his society, though he perhaps scarcely saw her, or at most regarded her but as a pretty child, yet she was satisfied: she saw him, and she heard him speak; what more was wanting to complete her dream of bliss? Lord Edmund's departure for the country, however, broke this magic charm. Prince Ferdinand came no more to Mrs. Montagu's; and Clara heard of him only as the devoted admirer of Rosabella. Jealousy till that moment had been scarcely known to her, even by name; but it now shot its fiercest pangs into her heart. She had never been accustomed to conceal her feelings, and they now destroyed her. The climax, however, was still to come. One day, as she was mournfully pacing the terrace in her father's garden, she was startled by the appearance of Prince Ferdinand himself: her agitation was excessive; her lips trembled, and she panted for breath; but he passed on without noticing her--yes, it was he, the cherished idol of her thoughts, the hero of her dreams;--and he had passed without seeing, or at least without seeming to behold her. Was it possible he could have seen her and passed so coldly?--was it possible she could be so totally indifferent to one who was all the world to her? Oh! there was madness in the thought! she could not bear her own reflections. What would become of her, she knew not--she cared not; and, in an agony of despair, she plunged into the thickest grove of the garden.