"Is not that a Cecilia, Carlomein?"
"If you think so, sir."
"You do not think it? You ought to know as well as I. As she is gone, let us go."
And lightly as she fled, he turned back to follow her. But we had lost her when we came into the garden. As he passed along, however, also among the flowers, he touched first one and then another of the delicate plants abstractedly, until at length he pulled off one blossom of an eastern jasmine,—a beautiful specimen, white as his own forehead, and of perfume sweetest next his breath.
"Oh!" said he gayly, "I have bereaved the soft sisterhood; but," he added earnestly, as he held the pale blossom between his fairest fingers, "I wonder whether they are unhappy so far from home. I wonder whether they know they are away!"
"I should think not, sir, or they would not blossom so beautifully."
"That is nothing, and no reason, O Carlomein! for I have seen such a beautiful soul that was away from home, and it was very homesick; yet it was so fair, so very fair, that it would put out the eye of this little flower."
I could not help saying, or quickly murmuring rather, "It must be your soul then, sir."
"Is it mine to thee? It is to me another; but that does not spoil thy pretty compliment."