CHAPTER XXIII.
THE RESULT.
Verty looked at Miss Sallianna, and sighed more deeply than he had ever sighed before.

The lady's face was full of the tenderest interest; it seemed to say, that with its possessor all secrets were sacred, and that nothing but the purest friendship, and a desire to serve unhappy personages, influenced her.
Who wonders, therefore, that Verty began to think that it would be a vast relief to him to have a confidant--that his inexperience needed advice and counsel--that the lady who now offered to guide him through the maze in which he was confounded and lost, knew all about the labyrinths, and from the close association with the object of his love, could adapt her counsel to the peculiar circumstances, better than any one else in the wide world?
Besides, Verty was a lover, and when did lover yet fail to experience the most vehement desire to pour into the bosom of some sympathizing friend--of either sex--the story of his feelings and his hopes?
It is no answer to this, that, in the present instance, the lover was almost ignorant of the fact, that he loved, and had no well-defined hopes of any description.

That is nothing to your true Corydon.

Not in the least.

Will he not discourse with rising and kindling eloquence upon everything connected with his Phillis?
Will not the ribbons on her bodice, and the lace around her neck, become the most important and delightful objects of discursive commentary ?--the very fluttering rosettes which burn upon her little instep, and the pearls which glitter in her powdered hair, be of more interest than the fall of thrones?
So Corydon, the lover, dreams, and dreams--and if you approach him in the forest-glade, he sighs and talks to you, till evening reddens in the west, about Phillis, only Phillis.