All his resolutions melted before her approach, as the iceberg thaws and dissolves beneath the rays of a tropic sky. He had floated into the old latitudes of love and warmth again, and his cold heart once more began to beat--his hardness to pass away; leaving the old, true, faithful love. She came on carelessly through the crowd, dispensing smiles and gay laughter. Surrounded by a host of admirers, she talked with all of them at once--scattered here a jest, there a smile; asked here a question, replied gaily there to one addressed to her; and as she moved, the crowd of gallant gentlemen moved with her, as the stars hover around and follow in the wake of the bright harvest moon. Philippa was "easily foist." She had that rare joyousness which is contagious, making all who come within its influence merry like itself; and with her wildest laughter and her most careless jests, a maiden simpleness and grace was mingled which made the "judicious" who had "grieved" before as much her admirers as the ruffled and powdered fine gentlemen who bowed and smiled and whispered to her as she moved. Poor Mowbray! He saw what he had lost, and groaned. This was the woman whom he loved--would have given worlds to have love him again. This was the bold true nature he had felt such admiration for--and now he saw how maidenly she was, and only saw it fully when she was lost to him. Could she have ever uttered those cruel words which still echoed in his heart?--and was this kind and happy face, this open, frank, and lovely girl, the woman who had struck his heart so rudely? Could he not love her still, and go to her and say, "I wronged you, pardon me, I love you more than ever"? No; all that was over, and he might love her madly, with insane energy, and break his heart with the thought of her beauty and simplicity and truth; but never would he again approach a woman who despised him--looked upon him as an adventurer and fortune-hunter. Still Philippa came on slowly, bowing, smiling, and jesting--she ever approached nearer. Mowbray felt a shudder run through his body, and turned to leave the spot. As he did so, he heard a voice which made his ears tingle, his heart sink, his cheek flush, utter in the most quiet manner, and without any exhibition of coldness or satire or affectation, the words: "Good evening, Mr. Mowbray. Will you not speak to me?" Mowbray became calm suddenly, by one of those efforts of resolution which characterized him. "Good evening, madam," he said, approaching the young girl unconsciously; "I trust you are well." And wondering at himself, he stood beside her. "I believe I am very well," she said, smiling; "will you give me your arm?" Mowbray presented his arm, bowing calmly; and with a smile which embraced the whole mortified group of gentlemen, the young girl turned away with him. "I have not had the pleasure of seeing you--have I?--lately," she said; "where have you been, if I may ask a very impertinent question?"