Allan Clare was just two years older than Rosamund.

He was a boy of fourteen, when he first became acquainted with her--it was soon after she had come to reside with her grandmother at Widford.
He met her by chance one day, carrying a pitcher in her hand, which she had been filling from a neighboring well--the pitcher was heavy, and she seemed to be bending with its weight.
Allan insisted on carrying it for her--for he thought it a sin that a delicate young maid, like her, should be so employed, and he stand idle by.
Allan had a propensity to do little kind offices for everybody--but at the sight of Rosamund Gray, his first fire was kindled--his young mind seemed to have found an object, and his enthusiasm was from that time forth awakened.

His visits, from that day, were pretty frequent at the cottage.
He was never happier than when he could get Rosamund to walk out with him.

He would make her admire the scenes he admired--fancy the wild flowers he fancied--watch the clouds he was watching--and not unfrequently repeat to her poetry which he loved, and make her love it.
On their return, the old lady, who considered them yet as but children, would bid Rosamund fetch Mr.Clare a glass of her currant-wine, a bowl of new milk, or some cheap dainty which was more welcome to Allan than the costliest delicacies of a prince's court.
The boy and girl, for they were no more at that age, grew fond of each other--more fond than either of them suspected.
"They would sit, and sigh, And look upon each other, and conceive Not what they ail'd; yet something they did ail, And yet were well--and yet they were not well; And what was their disease, they could not tell." And thus, "In this first garden of their simpleness They spent their childhood." A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered the nature of their attachment.
Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de Roubigne"-- a book which young Clare had lent her.
Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown round her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage in Julia's third letter.
"Maria! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have sometimes painted to myself a _husband_--no matter whom--comforting me amidst the distresses which fortune had laid upon us.

I have smiled upon him through my tears; tears, not of anguish, but of tenderness!--our children were playing around us, unconscious of misfortune; we had taught them to be humble, and to be happy; our little shed was reserved to us, and their smiles to cheer it .-- I have imagined the luxury of such a scene, and affliction became a part of my dream of happiness." The girl blushed as she read, and trembled--she had a sort of confused sensation, that Allan was noticing her--yet she durst not lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading, scarce knowing what she read.
Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, Allan trembled too--his color came and went--his feelings became impetuous--and flinging both arms round her neck, he kissed his young favorite.
Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed and frightened, all in a moment--a fit of tears came to her relief.
Allan had indulged before in these little freedoms, and Rosamund had thought no harm of them; but from this time the girl grew timid and reserved--distant in her manner, and careful of her behavior in Allan's presence--not seeking his society as before, but rather shunning it--delighting more to feed upon his idea in absence.
Allan too, from this day, seemed changed: his manner became, though not less tender, yet more respectful and diffident--his bosom felt a throb it had till now not known, in the society of Rosamund--and, if he was less familiar with her than in former times, that charm of delicacy had superadded a grace to Rosamund, which, while he feared, he loved.
There is a _mysterious character_, heightened, indeed, by fancy and passion, but not without foundation in reality and observation, which true lovers have ever imputed to the object of their affections.