I don't know all that was passing in pretty Lilias's fancy--in her heart--near the hum of the waters and the spell of that musical voice.

Love speaks in allegories and a language of signs; looks and tones tell his tale most truly.

So Devereux's talk held her for a while in a sort of trance, melancholy and delightful.

There must be, of course, the affinity--the rapport--the what you please to call it--to begin with--it matters not how faint and slender; and then the spell steals on and grows.

See how the poor little woodbine, or the jessamine, or the vine, will lean towards the rugged elm, appointed by Virgil, in his epic of husbandry (I mean no pun) for their natural support--the elm, you know it hath been said, is the gentleman of the forest:--see all the little tendrils turn his way silently, and cling, and long years after, maybe, clothe the broken and blighted tree with a fragrance and beauty not its own.