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"
You
admire
these
wild
scenes
,
Miss
Poindexter
?
"
"
Admire
them
?
Something
more
,
sir
!
I
see
around
me
all
that
is
bright
and
beautiful
in
nature
:
verdant
turf
,
trees
,
flowers
,
all
that
we
take
such
pains
to
plant
or
cultivate
;
and
such
,
too
,
as
we
never
succeed
in
equalling
.
There
seems
nothing
wanting
to
make
this
picture
complete
--
'
tis
a
park
perfect
in
everything
!
"
"
Except
the
mansion
?
"
"
That
would
spoil
it
for
me
.
Give
me
the
landscape
where
there
is
not
a
house
in
sight
--
slate
,
chimney
,
or
tile
--
to
interfere
with
the
outlines
of
the
trees
.
Under
their
shadow
could
I
live
;
under
their
shadow
let
me
--
"
The
word
:
"
love
"
uppermost
in
her
thoughts
--
was
upon
the
tip
of
her
tongue
.
She
dexterously
restrained
herself
from
pronouncing
it
--
changing
it
to
one
of
very
different
signification
--
"
die
.
"
It
was
cruel
of
the
young
Irishman
not
to
tell
her
that
she
was
speaking
his
own
sentiments
--
repeating
them
to
the
very
echo
.
To
this
was
the
prairie
indebted
for
his
presence
.
But
for
a
kindred
inclination
--
amounting
almost
to
a
passion
--
he
might
never
have
been
known
as
Maurice
the
mustanger
.
The
romantic
sentiment
is
not
satisfied
with
a
"
sham
.
"
It
will
soon
consume
itself
,
unless
supported
by
the
consciousness
of
reality
.
The
mustanger
would
have
been
humiliated
by
the
thought
,
that
he
chased
the
wild
horse
as
a
mere
pastime
--
a
pretext
to
keep
him
upon
the
prairies
.
At
first
,
he
might
have
condescended
to
make
such
an
acknowledgment
--
but
he
had
of
late
become
thoroughly
imbued
with
the
pride
of
the
professional
hunter
.
His
reply
might
have
appeared
chillingly
prosaic
.
