Isola Sacra was not more than two miles in length, and about one in breadth; nevertheless, within its limited space there was considerable diversity. There were cliffs rising vertically from the water; there were strips of yellow sand by the sea; there were woods, and a silver-flashing stream. And most attractive sight of all, the remains of a Grecian temple crowning the summit of a small eminence, the marble columns glowing brilliantly white against a background of dark cypresses. Towards this edifice they slowly made their way. "To whom was this temple raised?" asked Barbara, as they stood within the ruin. "It was the shrine of Eros." The Temple of Love! What more appropriate place could there be for an avowal? "The god of love," she murmured softly. "And his altar and shrine are fallen!" "But not his worship," replied Paul. "That is eternal." Barbara averted her eyes, and trembled with a sweet feeling. They sat down on a fallen column beneath the shadow cast by a graceful palm. Before them lay the bay they had just crossed,--a blue semicircular mirror, the Illyrian mountains forming a picturesque background. Paul and Barbara sat drinking in the deep beauty of the scene. In the boat their conversation had been lively and unrestrained, but now a silence lay on both. Barbara was the first to speak. "I think," she murmured dreamily, gazing at the sky, "that the loveliest part of heaven must be above this isle." Paul glanced at her inquiringly, not quite comprehending her remark. "The Arabian poets," she continued, "assert that the fairest spot on earth is situated beneath the fairest spot in heaven, the earthly, as it were, being a reflex of the heavenly." "A pretty idea!" said Paul. "With me, however, the fairest place on earth is not a fixed, but a moveable point." "Yes?" said Barbara inquiringly. "To me the fairest place is wherever you happen to be. Do I make myself clear, dearest Barbara, or shall I say more?" Barbara tried to speak, but the words would not come. There was no need for speech, however. A light that would have made the plainest features beautiful stole over her face. She placed her little hand within his, and by that act Paul knew that she was his for ever. He drew her to his embrace, where she reclined supremely happy and yet afraid to raise her eyes to his. "Barbara," he whispered, "you have never yet told me the story of your life. Will you not do so now?" There was nothing Barbara would not have done to please Paul. She was silent for a few moments, as if collecting her thoughts, and then, still within the circle of his arms, she began in a voice as low and silvery as if coming from dreamland. "If I have been truly told, I was born at Warsaw in 1826, and shall therefore be nineteen years of age next month.