"Miss Juliet, your father has been giving us a treat," said the Colonel.
Poor Juliet turned first very red, and then very pale, and glanced
reproachfully at the old man.
"Nay, Miss Whitmore, you need not be ashamed of that which does you so
much credit," said the Colonel, pitying her confusion.
"Dear papa, it was cruel to betray me," said Juliet, the tears of
mortified sensibility filling her fine eyes. "Colonel Hurdlestone, you
will do me a great favor by never alluding to this subject again."
"You are a great admirer of nature, Miss Whitmore, or you could never
write poetry," said Godfrey, heedless of the distress of the poor girl.
But he was tired of sitting silent, and longed for an opportunity of
addressing her.
"Poetry is the language in which nature speaks to the heart of the
young," said Juliet. "Do you think that there ever was a young person
indifferent to the beauties of poetry?"
"All young people have not your taste and fine feeling," said Godfrey.
"There are some persons who can walk into a garden without
distinguishing the flowers from the weeds. You have of course read
Shakspeare?"
"It formed the first epoch in my life," returned Juliet with animation.
"I never shall forget the happy day when I first revelled through the
fairy isle with Ariel and his dainty spirits. My father was from home,
and had left the key in the library door.
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