tep　on　that　grass…grown　track；　the　water　running　in　the　vale　was　the　one　lulling　sound　of　the　hour　and　scene；　we　might　well　then　start　when　a　gay　voice；　sweet　as　a　silver　bell；　exclaimed—

“Good　evening；　Mr。　Rivers。　And　good　evening；　old　Carlo。　Your　dog　is　quicker　to　recognise　his　friends　than　you　are；　sir；　he　pricked　his　ears　and　wagged　his　tail　when　I　was　at　the　bottom　of　the　field；　and　you　have　your　back　towards　me　now。”

It　was　true。　Though　Mr。　Rivers　had　started　at　the　first　of　those　musical　accents；　as　if　a　thunderbolt　had　split　a　cloud　over　his　head；　he　stood　yet；　at　the　close　of　the　sentence；　in　the　same　attitude　in　which　the　speaker　had　surprised　him—his　arm　resting　on　the　gate；　his　face　directed　towards　the　west。　He　turned　at　last；　with　measured　deliberation。　A　vision；　as　it　seemed　to　me；　had　risen　at　his　side。　There　appeared；　within　three　feet　of　him；　a　form　clad　in　pure　white—a　youthful；　graceful　form：　full；　yet　fine　in　contour；　and　when；　after　bending　to　caress　Carlo；　it　lifted　up　its　head；　and　threw　back　a　long　veil；　there　bloomed　under　his　glance　a　face　of　perfect　beauty。　Perfect　beauty　is　a　strong　expression；　but　I　do　not　retrace　or　qualify　it：　as　sweet　features　as　ever　the　temperate　clime　of　Albion　moulded；　as　pure　hues　of　rose　and　lily　as　ever　her　humid　gales　and　vapoury　skies　generated　and　screened；　justified；　in　this　instance；　the　term。　No　charm　was　wanting；　no　defect　was　perceptible；　the　young　girl　had　regular　and　delicate　lineaments；　eyes