In an ante-chamber leading out of the crowded ball-room--an ante-chamber where the atmosphere was cool, and where the close neighborhood of a fountain plashing into its marble basin in an adjoining conservatory refreshed the wearied ear, two young men lounged lazily upon a satin-covered couch, watching the dancers through the open ball-room door. The first of these young men was a South American, Mortimer Percy, the partner of Augustus Horton, and the first cousin of the planter and his pretty sister Adelaide. Mortimer Percy was a handsome young man. His fair, curling hair clustered round a broad and noble forehead; his large clear blue eyes sparkled with the light of intellect; his delicate aquiline nose and chiseled nostrils bespoke the refinement of one who was by nature a gentleman; but a satirical expression spoiled an otherwise beautiful mouth, and an air of languor and weariness pervaded his appearance. He seemed one of those who have grown indifferent to life, careless alike of its joys and sorrows. His companion contrasted strongly with him both in appearance and manner. With a complexion bronzed by exposure to Southern suns, with flashing black eyes, a firm but flexible mouth, shaded with a silky raven mustache, and thick black hair brushed carelessly back from his superb forehead, Gilbert Margrave, artist, engineer, philanthropist, poet, seemed the very type of manly energy. The atmosphere of a crowded ball-room appeared unnatural to him. That daring spirit was out of place amidst the narrow conventionalities of fashionable life; the soaring nature needed wide savannas and lofty mountain tops, distant rivers and sounding waterfalls; the artist and poet mind sighed for the beautiful--not for the beautiful as we see it in a hot-house flower, imprisoned in a china vase, but as it lurks in the gigantic cup of the Victoria regia on the broad bosom of the mighty Amazon. But Gilbert Margrave was one of the lions of 1860. An invention in machinery, which had enriched both the inventor and the cotton spinners of Manchester, had made the young engineer celebrated, and when it was discovered that he belonged to a good Somersetshire family, that he was handsome and accomplished, an artist and a poet, invitations flocked in upon him from all the fashionable quarters of the West End. He had been silent for some time, his gaze riveted upon one of the brilliant groups in the ball-room, when Mortimer Percy tapped him lightly on the shoulder with his gloved hand. "Why, man, what are you dreaming of?" he said, laughing; "what entrancing vision has enchained your artist glance? What fairy form has bewitched your poet soul? One would think you were amid solitudes of some forest on the banks of the Danube instead of a ball-room in Grosvenor Square. Confess, my Gilbert, confess to your old friend, and reveal the nymph whose spells have transformed you into some statue."