The simple, sylvan character of its daily life charmed his poetic instincts.

The sweet, hot days on the fells, with a rod in his hand, and Charlotte and the squire for company, were like an idyl.

The rainy days in the large, low drawing-room, singing with Sophia, or dreaming and speculating with her on all sorts of mysteries, were, in their way, equally charmful.

He liked to walk slowly up and down, and to talk to her softly of things obscure, cryptic, cabalistic.

The plashing rain, the moaning wind, made just the monotonous accompaniment that seemed fitting; and the lovely girl, listening, with needle half-drawn, and sensitive, sensuous face lifted to his own, made a situation in which he knew he did himself full justice.
At such times he thought Sophia was surely his natural mate,--'the soul that halved his own,' the one of 'nearer kindred than life hinted of.' At other times he was equally conscious that he loved Charlotte Sandal with an intensity to which his love for Sophia was as water is to wine.
But Charlotte's indifference mortified him, and their natures were almost antagonistic to each other.