th. If she had, perhaps, with
a woman's ingenuity, she had devised some plan to extricate him from the
dilemma. She was conscious of the strong interest she felt in the man
before her; but the fact that she loved him was yet unrecognized. How
should it be? She was unskilled in the subtleties even of her own
heart. She know not the meaning of love yet. She was conscious of a
grateful sensation in her heart; but she had yet to learn that this
sensation was that called love in the great world. She began to fear, in
her inability to account for Henry's strangeness in any other way, that
some secret sorrow weighed heavily upon him.

"I will not press you," said she, in a tone of affectionate sympathy;
"but, if you have any sorrow which oppresses you, reveal it to my
father, and take counsel against it. My father's house is your home,--at
least, we have always endeavored to make it so. Father has always
regarded you with the affection of a parent, and taught me to consider
you as a brother--"

"A brother!" interrupted Henry, feeling that the relation of brother and
sister was too cold for the warmth of his affection; but, instantly
banishing the unworthy thought, he continued,

"And so, my pretty sister, you are for the first time entering upon your
sisterly relations?"

"The first time! Have I not always given you evidence of a sister's
esteem?"

"Pardon me. I only jested," said Henry, as the playful smile left his
countenance.

"Do not jest upon serious things, Henry," replied Emily. "But, brother,
something troubles you. You cannot deny it. You look so gloomy and sad,
and must leave us so suddenly."

"Nay, my sweet sister,--since sister I am permitted to call you,--you
must forgive me if I am obstinate just this once."

"I will forgive your obstinacy because you desire it, and not because I
am satisfied. Do you know, brother," said she, with a playful smile,
"that I suspect you are in love?"

This raillery was intended to have been uttered with a pert archness;
but the crimson cheek and tremulous lips entirely defeated the
intention.

"Fie, sister! You are jesting now, yourself," replied Henry, with what
was intended for a smile, but which, like his assailant's archness, was
a signal failure.

Both parties were now in the most unfortunate position imaginable.
Neither dared to speak, for fear of disclosing their emotions. Both felt
the awkwardness of the silence, and both felt the danger of breaking it.
Henr