as you to him,--dearer than all others?"

HELEN (shrinking back, and greatly disturbed).--"Hush, hush! you must
not speak to me thus; it is wicked,--I cannot bear it. I would not have
it be so; it must not be,--it cannot!"

She clasped her hands over her eyes for a moment, and then lifted her
face, and the face was very sad, but very calm.

VIOLANTE (twining her arm round Helen's waist).--"How have I wounded
you,--how offended? Forgive me, but why is this wicked? Why must it not
be? Is it because he is below you in birth?"

HELEN.--"No, no,--I never thought of that. And what am I? Don't ask
me,--I cannot answer. You are wrong, quite wrong as to me. I can only
look on Leonard as--as a brother. But--but, you can speak to him more
freely than I can. I would not have him waste his heart on me, nor
yet think me unkind and distant, as I seem. I know not what I say.
But--but--break to him--indirectly--gently--that duty in both forbids us
both to--to be more than friends--than--"

"Helen, Helen!" cried Violante, in her warm, generous passion, "your
heart betrays you in every word you say. You weep; lean on me, whisper
to me; why--why is this? Do you fear that your guardian would not
consent? He not consent? He who--"

HELEN.--"Cease--cease--cease!"

VIOLANTE.--"What! You can fear Harley--Lord L'Estrange? Fie; you do not
know him."

HELEN (rising suddenly).--"Violante, hold; I am engaged to another."

Violante rose also, and stood still, as if turned to stone; pale as
death, till the blood came, at first slowly, then with suddenness from
her heart, and one deep glow suffused her whole countenance. She caught
Helen's hand firmly, and said in a hollow voice,

"Another! Engaged to another! One word, Helen,--not to him--not
to--Harley--to--"

"I cannot say,--I must not. I have promised," cried poor Helen, and
as Violante let fall her hand, she hurried away. Violante sat down
mechanically; she felt as if stunned by a mortal blow. She closed her
eyes and breathed hard. A deadly faintness seized her; and when it
passed away, it seemed to her as if she were no longer the same being,
nor the world around her the same world,--as if she were but one
sense of intense, hopeless misery, and as if the universe were but one
inanimate void. So strangely immaterial are we really--we human beings,
with flesh and blood--that if you suddenly abstract from us but single,
impalpable, airy thought, which our souls have cherished, you seem