“With her, my child, it is the blossom which precedes the fruit,—bright, delicate, heavenly,—perishing, sometimes, with the first frost, or under a warm burst of sunshine; but when the blossom falls only to shrine its shadow in the core of the fruit that springs from it, changing itself only to meet the sweet changes of womanhood; then, and not till then, can the soul know how faithful, how true, how immortal love is.” Anna bent her head and listened to that sad, low voice, which spoke of love with such sweet solemnity. The blossoms of a first love seemed opening in her heart, then, and flooding it with perfume. “Oh, grandmother! how beautiful life is!” she said, with a deep sigh, which had no pain in it. “I think the whole earth brightens every day.” “Anna,” said the old lady, gently. “Well, grandmother.” “How long is it since the world has become so beautiful to you?” “Oh! I don’t know; but it seems to me forever.” “Still it is but a little time since we heard that my son—your father——” “Yes, I know—I know. For a time all the universe was dark as night to me; but now it seems as if my father had come back, and brought glimpses of the heaven he inhabits with him. Oh, grandmother! why is it that I am not unhappy? I know he is dead; I know that we are poor and helpless; that this is a miserable room, with nothing lovely in it but this precious old face, yet it seems like a paradise to me. I could sing here as nightingales do among the roses.” “Anna, my child, I fear this is love.” “Love, grandmother!” cried the girl, in a quick, startled voice. “No, no! not that! I never thought that it was really love.” That bright, young face turned white as she spoke; and Anna’s eyelids drooped suddenly. “Oh, grandmother! what makes you say that?” “I did not say it unkindly, darling.” “You never do say any thing unkindly, dear grandmother—but this frightens me. Am I doing wrong?” “Doing wrong! There can be no wrong in an honest affection; but there may be, and is, great danger.” “Danger, grandmother—how?” “I cannot explain—cannot even point out the danger; but this young man is rich, proud, highly educated. His parents are said to be ambitious for him beyond any thing.” “Yes, grandmother, I suppose they are; and I am so lowly, so very poor; so, so——” The poor girl’s eyes filled, and her sweet lips began to quiver with the tenderness of new-born grief. “I did not think of them. I never thought of any thing, only——” She broke off and covered her face with both hands. “Only that he loved you. Has young Mr. Savage told you this, Anna?” “I don’t know. Yes, it seems to me as if he had. How dark every thing is growing. This room is black and shabby. I wonder he could ever come here. I remember, now, the boys were playing with oyster-shells when he came in, and they had no shoes on, poor, little fellows! He never would have said those things to me here. Never, never!”