My reflections were not altogether unmingled with pain. Love cannot live without doubts and fears. Jealousy is its infallible concomitant-- ever present as the thorn with the rose. How could I hope that one hour of my presence had been sufficient to inspire in that young bosom the passion of a life? It could scarcely be other than a slight impression--a passing admiration of some speech, word, or gesture--too transient to be true? Perhaps I was already forgotten? Perhaps only remembered with a smile, instead of a sigh? Though still but a short time since our parting, many scenes had since transpired--many events had occurred in the life of that young creature to give it experience. Forms of equal--perhaps superior elegance--had come before her eye. Might not one of these have made its image upon her heart? The caravan was not a mere conglomeration of coarse rude adventurers. There were men of all classes composing it--not a few of accomplished education--not a few who, using a hackneyed phrase, were "men of the world,"--familiar with its ways and its wiles--and who perfectly understood all those intricate attentions and delicate lures, by which the virgin heart is approached and captured. There were military men too--those ever to be dreaded rivals in love--young officers of the escort, laced, booted, and spurred--bedecked, moreover, with that mysterious influence which authority ever imparts to its possessor. Could these be blind to the charms of such a travelling companion? Impossible. Or could she--her young bosom just expanding to receive the god of love--fail to acknowledge the nearest form as his image? Painfully improbable!