They were written by a friend—a friend, whom, next to Fred, I love better than the whole world—Juliet Whitmore."
"And do you know Juliet?"
"I will tell you all about it," said Clary, leaving her harp and sitting down beside him. "After dear Lucy died, I was very, very ill, and Fred took me to the sea-side for the benefit of bathing. I was a poor, pale, wasted, woe-begone thing. We lodged next door to the house occupied by Captain Whitmore, who was spending the summer upon the coast with his family.
"He picked acquaintance with me upon the beach one day; and whenever nurse took me down to bathe, he would pat my cheek, and tell me to bring home a red rose to mix with the lily in my face. I told him, laughingly, 'That roses never grew by the sea shore,' and he told me to come with him to his lodgings and see. And then he introduced me to Juliet, and we grew great friends, for though she was much taller and more womanly, she was only one year older than me. And we used to walk, and talk a great deal to each other, all the time we remained at ——, which was about three months; and, though we have not met since Fred bought Millbank, and came to this part of the country, she often writes to me sweet letters, full of poetry,—such poetry as she knows will please me; and in one of her letters, Cousin Anthony, she wrote a good deal about you."
"About me!—Oh, tell me, Clary, what she said about me."
"She said," replied the child, blushing very deeply, and speaking so low that Anthony could only just catch the words, "that she loved you. That you were the only man she had ever seen that realized her dreams of what man ought to be. And what she said of you made me love you too, and I felt proud that you were my cousin."
"Dear amiable Clary," and the delighted Anthony unconsciously covered the delicate white hand held within his own with passionate kisses.
"You must not take me for Juliet," and Clary quietly withdrew her hand. "But I am so glad that you love her, because we shall be able to talk about her. I have a small portfolio she gave me, full of pretty poems, which I will give to you, for I know all the poems by heart."
Anthony no longer heard her. He was wrapt up in a blissful dream, from which he was in no hurry to awaken. Many voices spake to his soul, but over all, he heard one soft deep voice, whose tones pierced its utmost recesses, and infused new life and hope into his breast, which said—"Juliet loves you.'"