deceived by shadows, yet I seemed every where to see your image. The idea made me restless, and I ran with hurried steps hither and thither—kept incessantly moving from one spot to another. Oh tell me, does love always render people impatient?—It was not thus with me formerly; but I was gentle, quiet, and bore without a murmur the failure of any trifling wish; the disappointment of any cherished expectation—whether it were that a shower deprived me of a promised walk, or that the wind destroyed the flowers which I had carefully reared with my own hands. Now all is changed; I am no longer the same person. When I sit at my daily employments, and spin, or weave, if a thread happen to break, I am so peevish that I sometimes even startle at myself. (Caressing him) Tell me, Alonzo, does love improve, or spoil us?

Alonzo. True love improves.

Cora. Oh no, no!—True love reigns in my heart, yet I am not so good as I was.

Alonzo. It is only that thy blood runs somewhat more swiftly.

Cora. Or else that I am ill.—Yes, I am now often ill.

Alonzo. Indeed!

Cora. Yes, indeed!—But that must be so—for soon—soon—I shall not love you alone.

Alonzo. (Starting) Not me alone?

Cora. (Smiling) Not you alone!

Alonzo. Your words involve a riddle, or else a crime.[24] Cora, love cannot comprehend more than one object.—You will not love me alone? (He fixes his eyes earnestly upon her) No, you cannot mean to say so—if it were true, you could not look at me with so much composure, such perfect unreserve.

[24]

Cora. And why should I not look at you with composure?—My feelings are so sweet that they cannot be criminal. An unknown, but pleasing sadness has taken possession of my heart—I experience sensations not to be described. When lately at the Solstitial feast, I was ornamenting the porch of the temple with flowers, I saw upon the lowest of the steps which lead up to it, a young woman sleeping, at whose breast lay a little smiling angel: my heart was altogether dissolved at so interesting a spectacle, and I involuntarily stretched out my arms to the child, intending to take it gently from its mother, and press it to my bosom. But how easily 

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