already entangled amid the tops of the lofty trees, whose lengthened shadows they cast, now upon the swift current, now on the smooth lawns that extended before the ancient mansions thickly scattered along the banks of the stream. Beautified by the labors of the many generations whose homes these mansions had been, Grand Isle presented a scene of fairy-like beauty, far unlike the unkempt ruggedness that at present there meets the traveller's eye.
We had turned the southern extremity of the isle. We had for some time been sitting in blissful silence,—the silence of utter content.
"Ismar," said Reva at last, "I am almost afraid of this happiness. It seems too great for this earth. How could we be more happy? where could we see scenes more beautiful than these?"
I, too, had to acknowledge a similar feeling, one of awed wonder as it were, at the completeness of our happiness. So rare are the gleams of perfect sunshine on the pathway of life, that we are almost afraid to enjoy the unwonted splendor; as in certain climes a sunrise of unsullied brightness is regarded as the sure precursor of a stormy day.
This passing mood may have been partly influenced by the increasing volume of sound that betokened our approach toward the grandest spectacle on our continent. A change of wind, indeed, was now causing the muffled thunder of the falls to reach our ears in one continuous though distant roar, fit herald of our passage from the beautiful to the sublime.
As we approached the northern extremity of the island,
