Those feeble feminine plants, are, it sometimes seems to me, the strength and perfection of creation--strength perfected in weakness; the ivy, green among the snows of winter, and clasping together in its true embrace the loveless ruin; and the vine that maketh glad the heart of man amidst the miseries of life.

I must not be mistaken, though, for Devereux's talk was only a tender sort of trifling, and Lilias had said nothing to encourage him to risk more; but she now felt sure that Devereux liked her--that, indeed, he took a deep interest in her--and somehow she was happy.
And little Lily drew towards the dancers, and Devereux by her side--not to join in the frolic; it was much pleasanter talking.

But the merry thrum and jingle of the tambourine, and vivacious squeak of the fiddles, and the incessant laughter and prattle of the gay company were a sort of protection.

And perhaps she fancied that within that pleasant and bustling circle, the discourse, which was to her so charming, might be longer maintained.

It was music heard in a dream--strange and sweet--and might never come again.
FOOTNOTE: [Footnote 1: These little verses have been several times set to music, and last and very sweetly, by Miss Elizabeth Philp.].