CHAPTER II. 



" But, look! the morn, in russet mantle clad, 

 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill." 



The dew fell, dropping from leaf to leaf, 

 and hung on the greensward in an endless 

 succession of glistening gems. The mist 

 floated on a light breeze, scarcely strong 

 enough to waft the wet spider's film meshed 

 on sprig, and bough, and hawthorn spray. 

 Mushrooms marked the rings where the elves 

 of the night had held their orgies, and the 

 fairy's light — the glowworm's lamp — still 

 shone faintly on the moss-bank. Like a bride, 

 veiled but not hidden, the young, gay morning 

 broke, with a smile, the slumbering hours. 

 Drooping flowers raised their petals, and 



