In the
time which Natalie had been in the Santon family, there had been a
perceptible change in the character of the beautiful coquettish heiress.
Those blemishes which the faithful mother had discovered, upspringing in
her daughter's youthful heart, marring her otherwise lovable character,
had been erased; not that she had lost in any degree that gay, cheery
openness of heart which we love so well to meet,--she was yet the Winnie
Santon of days which had known no lowering skies, the singing bird of a
June morning,--save that an occasional plaintive note, breathed out upon
youth's freshness of life's realities.
It was the last night in which these maidens, Winnie and Natalie, might
pour out to each other the fulness of their hearts. The last, did we
say, the last? distance would separate them ere another sunset, and
ocean would intervene; yet we have said,--the last. Folded in each
other's arms, they sat in the pale moonlight, each reading within the
other's soul, an appreciation of this holy hour. Holy hours are they
indeed, which lead our thoughts far up beyond this mortal sphere,
pointing us to other than earth's vanities.
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