The boy and girl, for they were no more at that age, grew fond of each other--more fond than either of them suspected. "They would sit, and sigh, And look upon each other, and conceive Not what they ail'd; yet something they did ail, And yet were well--and yet they were not well; And what was their disease, they could not tell. And thus, In this first garden of their simpleness They spent their childhood." A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered the nature of their attachment. Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de Roubigné"--a book which young Clare had lent her. Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown round her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage in Julia's third letter. "Maria! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have sometimes painted to myself a _husband_--no matter whom--comforting me amidst the distresses, which fortune had laid upon us. I have smiled upon him through my tears; tears, not of anguish, but of tenderness;--our children were playing around us, unconscious of misfortune; we had taught them to be humble, and to be happy; our little shed was reserved to us, and their smiles to cheer it.--I have imagined the luxury of such a scene, and affliction became a part of my dream of happiness." The girl blushed as she read, and trembled--she had a sort of confused sensation, that Allan was noticing her--yet she durst not lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading, scarce knowing what she read. Allan guessed the cause of her confusion. Allan trembled too--his colour came and went--his feeling became impetuous--and, flinging both arms round her neck, he kissed his young favourite. Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed and frightened, all in a moment--a fit of tears came to her relief. Allan had indulged before in these little freedoms, and Rosamund had thought no harm of them--but from this time the girl grew timid and reserved--distant in her manner, and careful of her behaviour, in Allan's presence--not seeking his society as before, but rather shunning it--delighting more to feed upon his idea in absence. Allan too, from this day, seemed changed: his manner became, though not less tender, yet more respectful and diffident--his bosom felt a throb it had till now not known, in the society of Rosamund--and, if he was less familiar with her than in former times, that charm of delicacy had superadded a grace to Rosamund, which, while he feared, he loved. There is a _mysterious character_, heightened indeed by fancy and passion, but not without foundation in reality and observation, which true lovers have ever imputed to the object of their affections. This character Rosamund had now acquired with Allan--something _angelic, perfect, exceeding nature_.