The first blush of morning lay warm upon
sky and lake--the splendour above perfectly matched by the splendour
below,--as Rose Macleod opened her casement window fronting the east,
and looked out upon the myriad tender tints, the new yet ever familiar
harmonies of light and colour with which the world was clothed. The
gray walls of the Commodore's home on this side were hung with
climbing plants, and as his pretty daughter leaned out of her chamber
window a dewy branch of roses, loosened from its fastening, struck her
softly on the cheek. The touch gave her a thrill, delicately keen--a
pleasure, sharp as pain. No life was abroad yet except the birds, but
the morning-glories were all awake. She could see their wealth of
tender bloom outspread upon the rugged heap of rocks, warm with
sunshine, that separated between a corner of the flower-smothered turf
and the dark shadow of the almost impenetrable woods.
With her golden head drooped in drowsy meditation upon her folded arms
she would have made a picture for a painter, a picture rose-tinted and
rose-framed. But no painter was there to look upon her except the sun,
and his ardent attentions becoming altogether too warm to be agreeable
he was incontinently shut outside.
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