But its own sorrow suffices to the day.

And now it is a summer sunset, and all around dappled gold and azure, and sweet, dreamy sounds; and Lilias turns her pretty head, and sees him;--and oh! was it fancy, or did he see just a little flushing of the colour on her cheek--and her lashes seemed to drop a little, and out came her frank little hand.

And Devereux leaned on the paling there, and chatted his best sense and nonsense, I dare say; and they laughed and talked about all sorts of things; and he sang for them a queer little snatch of a ballad, of an enamoured captain, the course of whose true love ran not smooth;-- The river ran between them, And she looked upon the stream, And the soldier looked upon her As a dreamer on a dream.
'Believe me--oh! believe,' He sighed, 'you peerless maid; My honour is pure, And my true love sure, Like the white plume in my hat, And my shining blade.' The river ran between them, And she smiled upon the stream, Like one that smiles at folly-- A dreamer on a dream.
'I do not trust your promise, I will not be betrayed; For your faith is light, And your cold wit bright, Like the white plume in your hat, And your shining blade.' The river ran between them, And he rode beside the stream, And he turned away and parted, As a dreamer from his dream.
And his comrade brought his message, From the field where he was laid-- Just his name to repeat, And to lay at her feet The white plume from his hat And his shining blade.[1] And he sang it in a tuneful and plaintive tenor, that had power to make rude and ridiculous things pathetic; and Aunt Rebecca thought he was altogether very agreeable.

But it was time she should see what Miss Gertrude was about; and Devereux and Lily were such very old friends that she left them to their devices.
'I like the river,' says he; 'it has a soul, Miss Lily, and a character.
There are no river _gods_, but nymphs.

Look at that river, Miss Lilias; what a girlish spirit.