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Rh at all times, never yet pronounced with indifference even by the indifferent: what then is its pain to those who love—to those whose eternity is the present? It is so very hard to exchange certainty for hope—to renounce to-day, in expectation of to-morrow. But that Beatrice had from the earliest period been accustomed to think of others' claims, not her own, she never could have resigned the lover who stood beside her for her distant father. The dew shone like frost-work, as the sun touched the silvery leaves of the olive—every step left its trace on the grass, as Beatrice trod the little wood-path which led to the road her lover must pass. One moment she paused—it was so early, and a blush of feminine timidity rather than pride gave the colour of the morning to her cheek, as she thought—"If I should be first." But Edward was at the old cork-tree before her. What could any lovers in the present day say, that has not been said before?—trees, rivers, sun and moon, have alike been called upon to register the vow they witnessed. These parted as all part; many a gentle promise, which rather satisfies itself than its hearer—many a lingering look—many a loitering step—and at last one sudden effort, expected