red, and rested upon the glittering vane.

"The church!" half soliloquised my companion; "I hardly know what it is
like, it is so long since I saw it."

"How long?"

"Oh, many, many years; I was very young then."

"And you have not been beyond these walls since then?"

"Oh yes! Papa has taken us down the river in the boat, mamma and
myself, often, but not lately."

"And have you no wish to go abroad through these gay woods?"

"I do not desire it; I am contented here."

"And will you always be contented here?"

"And why not, Enrique? When you are near me, why should I not be
happy?"

"But when--"

A dark shadow seemed to cross her thoughts. Benighted with love, she
had never reflected upon the probability of my leaving her, nor indeed
had I. Her cheeks became suddenly pale; and I could see the agony
gathering in her eyes, as she fixed them upon me. But the words were
out--

"When I must leave you?"

She threw herself on my breast, with a short, sharp scream, as though
she had been stung to the heart, and in an impassioned voice cried
aloud--

"Oh! my God, my God! leave me! leave me! Oh! you will not leave me?
You who have taught me to love! Oh! Enrique, why did you tell me that
you loved me? Why did you teach me to love?"

"Zoe!"

"Enrique, Enrique! say you will not leave me!"

"Never! Zoe! I swear it; never, never!" I fancied at this moment I
heard the stroke of an oar; but the wild tumult of my feelings prevented
me from rising to look over the bank. I was raising my head when an
object, appearing above the bank, caught my eye. It was a black
sombrero with its golden band. I knew the wearer at a glance: Seguin!
In a moment, he was beside us.

"Papa!" exclaimed Zoe, rising up and reaching forward to embrace him.
The father put her to one side, at the same time tightly grasping her
hand in his. For a moment he remained silent, bending his eyes upon me
with an expression I cannot depict. There was in it a mixture of
reproach, sorrow, and indignation. I had risen to confront him, but I
quailed under that singular glance, and stood abashed and silent.

"And this is the way you have thanked me for saving your life? A brave
return, good sir; what think you?"

I made no reply.

"Sir!" continued he, in a voice trembling with emotion, "you have deeply
wronged me."

"I know it not; I have not wronged you."

"What call you this? Trifling with my child!"

"Trifling!" I exclaime