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N nature, what flower puts on its most brilliant hues, or expands in its fullest perfection, before the sun's caressing warmth and tingent light call forth the hidden possibilities of its species? In womanhood, what character assumes its most radiant coloring, or develops its highest beauty before its mysterious capabilities are evoked by the electric touch of love? We do not use the word lightly. We do not allude to that weather-vane of fancy which turns with every accidental breath; that evanescent penchant which leans wherever novelty attracts; that passing passion which evaporates like morning dew—which belongs to the morning season of impressible temperaments. It is only upon a pure, holy, and lasting emotion that we can bestow the name of love without fear of desecration.

That love enters reverently into the inmost sanctuary of a maiden's heart, fills her mind with one sovereign image, rises like a sun in the firmament of her soul, and imbues her whole world of thought and feeling with its own tints. Then falls