She started and turned round, and in her surprise let fall her flowers, yet she smiled, and seemed confused--but pleasure, pure, animated, life-breathing pleasure, was the predominant expression of her countenance. The Deity of Health was never personified in more glowing colours--her eye’s rich blue, her cheek’s crimson blush, her lip’s dewy freshness, the wanton wildness of her golden tresses, the delicious langour that mellowed the fire of her beamy glance--I gazed, and worshipped! but neither apologized for my intrusion, nor had the politeness to collect her scattered flowers. “If Nature,” said I, “had always such a priestess to preside at her altar, who would worship at the shrine of Art?” “I am her votarist only,” she replied, smiling, and, pointing to a wild rose which had just begun to unfold its blushing breast amidst the snowy blossoms of the hedge--added, “see how beautiful! how orient its hue appears through the pure crystal of the morning dew-drop! It is nearly three weeks since I first discovered it in the germ, since when I have screened it from the noonday ardours, and the evening’s frost, and now it is just bursting into perfection to reward my cares.” At these words, she plucked it from the stem. Its crimson head drooped with the weight of the gems that spangled it. Glorvina did not shake them off, but imbibed the liquid fragrance with her lip; then held the flower to me! “Am I to pledge you?” said I. She smiled, and I quaffed off the fairy nectar, which still trembled on the leaves her lip had consecrated. “We have now,” said I, “_both_ drank from the same cup; and if the delicious draught which Nature has prepared for us, circulates with mutual effect through our veins--If”--I paused, and cast down my eyes. The hand which still sustained the rose, and was still clasped in mine, seemed to tremble with an emotion scarcely inferior to that which thrilled through my whole frame. After a minute’s pause--“Take the rose,” said Glorvina, endeavouring to extricate the precious hand which presented it--“Take it; it is the first of the season! My father has had his snowdrop--the confessor his violet--and it is but just you should have your _rose_.” At that moment the classical remark of the priest rushed, I believe, with mutual influence, to both our hearts. I, at least, was borne away by the rapturous feelings of the moment, and knelt to receive the offering of my lovely votarist.