"There were two cousins almost like to twins;
And so they grew together, like two flowers
Upon one stem."—Shelley.
"It was a babe, beautiful from its birth."—Shelley.
The next day awakes calm and fair, and full of the rich ripeness that belongs to August. Lilian, opening her blue eyes upon the world at half-past seven, calls her nurse, and being dressed rushes forth into the garden to drink in all the first sweet freshness of the day.
The dew still lingers upon lawn and blossom; the spiders' webs glisten like jeweled nets in the dancing sunbeams; the exquisite opal flush of the morning sky has grown and spread and deepened, until all the heavens are tinged with warmest carmine.
There is "splendor in the grass," and "glory in the flower," and Lilian, flitting from bush to bush, enjoys everything to its utmost; she plucks two pale roses for her own bosom, and one, deep red and richly perfumed, to lay beside Lady Chetwoode's plate. This is a usual morning offering not to be neglected.
Just as she has made a careful choice, the breakfast bell rings loudly, and, running at her quickest—most reckless—speed through the hall, she barely succeeds in stopping herself as she comes up to Sir Guy at the door of the morning-room.
"Oh," cries she, with a little gasp, "another moment and I should have been in your arms. I never saw you. Good-morning, Guardy," gayly.
"Good-morning, my ward. I beg you to understand I could have welcomed that other moment. Why, what an early little bird you are! How long have you been abroad?"