"Whew! the bold Campbell, the daring descendant of old Guy the Fearless, has lost his heart at last!" laughed Willard Drummond.
"Not I," answered Guy, carelessly. "I never yet saw the woman who could touch my heart, and, please Heaven, never will."
"Well, here's a wonder—a young man of three-and-twenty, and never in love! Do you expect me to believe such a fable, my good friend?"
"Believe or not, as you will, it is nevertheless true."
"What—do you mean to say you have never felt a touch of the grande passion—the slightest symptom of that infectious disorder?"
"Pooh! boyish fancies go for nothing. I have now and then felt a queer sensation about the region of my heart at the sight of sundry faces at different times, but as for being fatally and incorrigibly in love, never, on my honor!"
"Well, before you reach the age of thirty, you'll have a different story to tell, or I'm mistaken."
"No; there is no danger, I fancy, unless indeed," he added, fixing his eyes quizzically on Drummond's handsome face, "I should happen to meet this little enchantress you spoke of awhile ago."
A cloud passed over the brow of his companion; but it cleared away in a moment as a quick, light footstep was heard approaching, and the next instant Sibyl Campbell, the haughty daughter of a haughty race, stood bright, dazzling, and smiling before them.
No one ever looked once in the face of Sibyl Campbell without turning to gaze again. Peerlessly beautiful as she was, it was not her beauty that would startle you, but the look of wild power, of intense daring, of fierce passions, of unyielding energy, of a will powerful for love or hate, of a nature loving, passionate, fiery, impulsive, and daring, yet gentle and winning.