should end in this. But it cannot be. Nay, I will not pretend
to misunderstand you. After the service you have rendered to him and to
myself, it would be uncandid in me and unworthy of you to conceal the
distress which your words have caused me."
"I am scarcely in a condition to speak reasonably and calmly," replied
Reilly, "but I cannot regret that I have unconsciously sacrificed my
happiness, when that sacrifice has saved you from distress and grief and
sorrow. Now that I know you, I would offer--lay down--my life, if the
sacrifice could save yours from one moment's care. I have often heard of
what love--love in its highest and noblest sense--is able to do and to
suffer for the good and happiness of its object, but now I know it."
She spoke not, or rather she was unable to speak; but as she pulled
out her snow-white handkerchief, Reilly could observe the extraordinary
tremor of her hands; the face, too, was deadly pale.
"I am not making love to you, Miss Folliard," he added. "No, my
religion, my position in life, a sense of my own unworthiness, would
prevent that; but I could not rest unless you knew that there is one
heart which, in the midst of unhappiness and despair, can understand,
appreciate, and love you. I urge no claim. I am without hope."
The fair girl (_Cooleen Bawn_) could not restrain her tears; but
wept--yes, she wept. "I was not prepared for this," she replied. "I did
not think that so short an acquaintance could have--Oh, I know not what
to say--nor how to act. My father's prejudices. You are a Catholic."
"And will die one, Miss Folliard."
"But why should you be unhappy? You do not deserve to be so."
"That is precisely what made me ask you just now if you believed in
fate."
"Oh, I know not. I cannot answer such a question; but why should you be
unhappy, with your brave, generous, and noble heart? Surely, surely, you
do not deserve it."
"I said before that I have no hope, Miss Folliard. I shall carry with
me my love of you through life; it is my first, and I feel it will be my
last--it will be the melancholy light that will burn in the sepulchre
of my heart to show your image there. And now, Miss Folliard, I will bid
you farewell. Your father has proffered me hospitality, but I have not
strength nor resolution to accept it. You now know my secret--a hopeless
passion."
"Reilly," she replied, weeping bitterly, "our acquaintance has been
short--we have not seen much of each other, yet
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