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Louisa Granard was seated in her own room, writing what the size of the paper implied was a small note—not so, if it was to be judged by the length of time which the note took writing. Yet the employment seemed a pleasant one; her cheek was flushed with a clear, rich crimson—her face And if, ever and anon, the brow was clouded by a shade of pensiveness, it was quickly dispelled by the consciousness of present happiness. A letter was open beside her, to whose contents it seemed necessary often to refer; but, when once taken up to read, it was not easily laid down again; and the fair student seemed to dwell on every word, and find out a new meaning each time. The fact was, Louisa Granard was answering a love-letter. Few there are whose hearts have not beat with delicious quickness at sight of a handwriting dearer than aught else in the world besides. The first love-letter is an epoch in love's happy season—it makes assurance doubly sure—that which has hitherto, perhaps, only found utterance in sweet and