It was a lovely May morning. The air was made jocund with the songs of birds; the balmy breeze scarce rippled the surface of the bay, where the sunshine fell in golden glory.
Through the open doors and windows of Valley Cottage the bright May sunbeams fell warm and bright; they lingered in broad patches on the white floor, and touched gently the iron-gray locks of Miss Hagar, as she sat knitting in her leathern chair in the chimney-corner, as upright and gray as ever. Years seemed to pass on without touching her; for just as we first saw her at Lizzie Oranmore's bridal, the same does she appear to-day.
In the doorway stands a young girl, tall and graceful, dressed in soft gray muslin, fastened at her slender waist by a gold-colored belt. Can this young lady be our little, shy Celeste? Yes; here is the same superb form, the same dainty little head, with its wealth of pale-gold hair; the same clear, transparent complexion; the soft, dove-like eyes of blue; the broad, white queenly forehead; the little, rosy, smiling mouth. Yes, it is Celeste—celestial, truly, with the promise of her childhood more than fulfilled. The world and its flatterers—and she has heard many—have had no power to spoil her pure heart, and she has returned the same gentle, loving Celeste—the idol of all who know her, radiating light and beauty wherever she goes, a very angel of charity to the poor, and beloved and cherished by the rich. More hearts than Celeste likes to think of have been laid at her feet, to be gently and firmly, but sadly, refused; for that sound, unsullied heart has never yet been stirred by the words of man.
She stood in the doorway, gazing with parted lips and sparkling eyes on the balmy beauty of that bright spring morning, with a hymn of gratitude and love to the Author of all this beauty filling her mind.
Suddenly the sylvan silence of the spot was broken by the thunder of horse's hoofs, and the next instant Gipsy came bounding along upon the back of her favorite Mignonne.
"Good-morning, dear Gipsy," said Celeste, with her own bright smile, as she hastened to open the gate for her. "Have you been out, as usual, hunting this morning?"
"Yes, and there are the spoils," said Gipsy, throwing a well-filled game-bag on the ground. "I come like a true hunter—a leal knight of the gay greenwood—to lay them at the feet of my liege lady. I fancied a canvas-back duck and a bright-winged partridge would not come amiss this morning. I know my gallop has made me perfectly ravenous."
"You shall have one of them presently for breakfast," said Celeste, calling Curly, their little black maid-of-all-work. "Tie Mignonne there, and come in."
"By the way, Celeste, you don't seem to think it such an appalling act to shoot birds now as you used to," said Gipsy, springing from her horse; "it was once a crime of the first magnitude in your eyes."
"And I confess it seems a needless piece of cruelty to me still. I could scarcely do it if I were starving, I think."