Nina was mounted upon her coal-black Zephyr—a most zepherial little piece of horse-flesh, fleet as the wind. Frank was by her side.
“Which way to-day, dear Nina?”
“Which ever way Zephyr takes.”
Zephyr took the road to Beverly Park. The Hall had been refitted, and looked itself again. The two rode through the park and grounds, viewing the improvements that had been made, alighting at length before the great door of the Hall.
“Stay, sweet Nina; there is one spot I wish to show you, you never have seen it. It was not completed till yesterday.”
Frank led her through the garden to the most poetic little arbor ever Eastern dame sighed in. Recal to your mind the most beautiful poetry you ever read or dreamed of—your beau-ideal of poetry—whether it be Byron’s, Shelley’s, Shakspeare’s, your own, or Mother Goose’s, and the little poem of an arbor stands in its beauty before you.
Nina’s delight was rapturous. After exhausting all the known adjectives in its praise, Nina sat quietly down within it, Francis by her side, and talked with him about music, and flowers, and poetry, and all the bright things in nature. She was playful and enthusiastic by turns. Every thing by fits, and nothing long.
Frank took her hand at last—her little, soft, warm hand—and calling up a serious, tender look—
“Nina,” said he, “I have traveled the world over, ay, more than once; I have seen many, very many beautiful beings; but never one like thee, sweet Nina. I will not say thou art the most beautiful, but I will say, thou art the most necessary to my existence, to my whole nature, of all earth contains. I love thee. Dearest Nina, may I call thee mine?”
“Whew! The girl and her fleet Zephyr were gone.”