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288 semblance of it, Corydon to Phillis, and sometimes—alas, for the order of things!—Phillis to Corydon. Paul has stolen a warm white shawl from the back of a chair, where it had been left by an unsuspecting dowager; there will be a fine hue and cry after it by-and-by.

The night is very lovely, more like an August one than September, the air is so warm, and the perfume of the flowering myrtle wanders abroad so sweetly. Down yonder, by the trout stream, the great masses of foliage lie dark and stirless; there is not a puff of wind to rock the pigeon-cotes hung aloft in the boughs; there is no sound of insect, bird, or beast, to ruffle the silence, only the far-off swish of the sea as softly laps the shore. Turning the corner of the house, we come to a stone parapet, that overlooks the flower garden dappled all over with flowers, and melting imperceptibly into the woods, that in turn seem to merge themselves into the sea. From the bed of mignonette below comes up to us a pure, fresh breath, that recommends itself more favourably to me than any of the voluptuous heavy perfumes of the hot-house flowers we left in the room behind us.

"I wonder if Juliet had a bed of mignonette?" I say, looking out at the silver streak of sea beyond the dusky woods.

"I dare say. What made you think of her?"

"This parapet and the flower garden stretched out below. I can almost fancy I hear Romeo calling—

and Juliet calling back—

"Do you think any girl could love like that now-a-days, Nell?"

"Was she not very quick?" I ask doubtfully; "do you not think