"You would catch your death of cold," Mrs. West said, aghast. "The dews are very heavy."
"Oh, of course, I don't mean to; but it is so romantic. It is like an Eastern night, so soft and balmy, and—oh, oh! Aunt West, is that the nightingale—the English nightingale papa used to love so dearly?"
She clapped her little hands. It was the nightingale, indeed, hid in some flowery covert, all alone,
"Pouring his full heart,
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art."
"Yes, it is the nightingale," said Mrs. West, delighted that Leonora had found something at last in England to grow enthusiastic over. "There are so many of them here, and it is down by the Magic Mirror you hear that one singing. It is their favorite resort."
"The Magic Mirror?" echoed Leonora.
"Yes. It is a pretty pond of water a little further on, all fringed with willows and roses. It is as smooth and clear as a mirror, and there is an old tradition that the youth or maiden gazing into the Magic Mirror by moon light, in the month of June, may see there reflected the face of his or her life companion."
"Oh, Aunt West, let us go there!" cried the girl, eagerly.
"What! you don't believe in that silly tradition?" laughed the good woman.