"The grief of slighted love, suppress'd, Scarce dull'd her eye, scarce heav'd her breast; Or if a tear, she strove to check, A truant tear stole down her neck, It seem'd a drop that, from his bill, The linnet casts, beside a rill, Flirting his sweet and tiny shower Upon a milk-white April flower:-- Or if a sigh, breathed soft and low, Escaped her fragrant lips; e'en so The zephyr will, in heat of day, Between two rose leaves fan its way." Amy had been some three weeks at home, and as yet there had been no improvement in Mrs. Neville's health to justify her daughter's return to Brampton. There was the same lassitude, the same weariness. She would lie on the sofa day after day, with no bodily…
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