more attentively, that her face lacked expression; but I made a grievous error. I quickly altered my opinion on seeing it in profile and upturned; for I marked the embodiment of devotion it betrayed during the service, when her voice was raised in the praise of her Maker. She looked now exactly like the picture of Saint Cecilia; and her appearance recalled to my mind what one of the American essayists, I forget who it is, observes quaintly somewhere, that it is no wonder that Catholics pay their vows to the queen of heaven, for “the unpoetical side of Protestantism is, that it has no woman to be worshipped.”

Of course I had fallen in love with her,—love at first sight; and, although you may not credit the assertion, allow me to put you right upon the point and inform you that such a thing is not only possible, but much more probable, and of more frequent occurrence than a good many people imagine or believe. Love is sometimes the growth of degrees: it may also bound into existence in a moment; for there is a certain sympathetic attraction between some persons, as there is between others an antipathetical, repulsive force. Understand, passion is not here alluded to. That is, of the senses. What I mean is, the essence or spirit of love, as pure as that which may subsist amongst the angels above.

I felt such love growing within me, as I looked at her, with her downcast eyes bent over her Bible, or as she sat, with head upraised and attentive ear, drinking in the words of spiritual wisdom addressed us by our good old pastor, of which at the time I took but little heed. She did not seem at all conscious that she was being observed; although she doubtless knew that I was looking at her, in that instinctive way common to her sex, in which they manage to take cognisance of everything going on around them, without so much as raising an eyelid. Indeed, she told me afterwards that she had been well aware of my watch, and added that she thought me “very rude, too;” but, just now, she took no notice of my looks and longings, as far as I could see.

It was not until the close of the service, and when she and her mother were leaving the pew, that I obtained a glance, a look, which dwelt in my memory for days and days. She had brought with her into church a tiny spray of mignonette, and this she left behind her on the seat close to where she had been sitting. I perceived it, and taking it up, made as if to restore it to its lawful owner.

A half smile faintly played across her slightly parted lips, as she looked at me for an instant, an amused sparkle in her clear, grey eyes, and then turned 

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