Eighteen summers have scarce kissed the brow of the fair maid, and already the canker worm of sorrow is preying upon her heart-strings. Poor thing, so young and yet so sad! What can have caused this sadness! Perhaps she loves one whose heart throbs not with answering kindness--perhaps loves one faithless to her beauty, or loves where cruel fate has interposed the barrier of a parent's frown!
No--her heart is as free and unfettered as the wind.
Ah! then perhaps her bosom friend, the chosen companion of her girlhood has proved unkind--some delightful project of pleasure perhaps frustrated, or, I dare say she has found herself eclipsed at Madame Raynor's _soirée_ by some more brilliant belle--no, no, none of these surmises are true, plausible as they appear! Then what is it? Perhaps--but you will never guess, and you will laugh incredulously when I tell you that poor, poor dear darling Ursula weeps because--because--
That is it--yes, weeps because she is the uncontrolled mistress of one hundred thousand dollars in houses, lands and gold, bright gold!
Poor little dear--looking upon fortune as a serious misfortune, and even envying those whose daily toil can alone bring them the necessaries of life; for, have they friends--they are true friends--there is no selfishness in the bond which unites them--while she, unhappy child that she is, owes to her rank and riches her thousand friends and the crowd of satellites worshiping before her! What a foolish notion to enter her little head! True, it is foolish. Lovers, too, in plenty sigh at her feet, and in the soft moonlight the air is tremulous with sighs and music, as from beneath her window steals the soft serenade. But Ursula curls her lip disdainfully, and orders her maid to shut out the sweet sounds. Ever that hateful gold comes between her and her lovers, and then she wishes her lot was humble, that she might be loved for herself alone!
Do you wish a portrait of the unhappy little heiress? Behold her then:
A perfect little sylph, resting on the tiniest of feet, with hands so charming that you would feel an almost irresistible desire to fold them caressingly within your own--the rich complexion of a brunette with the bloom of Hebe on her cheek--her hair like burnished jet--eyes large, lustrous and black--but (alas that there should be a _but_!) poor Ursula had an unfortunate cast in her left eye--in others words she squinted--yes, absolutely squinted!