tones and looks.
Sir Miles spoke to me, at first kindly and encouragingly, about my
prospects, said it was time that I should fix myself, added a few
words, with menacing emphasis, against what he called 'idle dreams and
desultory ambition,' and observing that I changed countenance,--for I
felt that I did,--his manner became more cold and severe. Lucretia,
if he has not detected our secret, he more than suspects my--my
presumption. Finally, he said dryly, that I had better return home,
consult with my father, and that if I preferred entering into the
service of the Government to any mercantile profession, he thought
he had sufficient interest to promote my views. But, clearly and
distinctly, he left on my mind one impression,--that my visits here are
over."

"Did he allude to me--to Mr. Vernon?"

"Ah, Lucretia! do you know him so little,--his delicacy, his pride?"

Lucretia was silent, and Mainwaring continued:--

"I felt that I was dismissed. I took my leave of your uncle; I came
hither with the intention to say farewell forever."

"Hush! hush! that thought is over. And you return to your
father's,--perhaps better so: it is but hope deferred; and in your
absence I can the more easily allay all suspicion, if suspicion exist.
But I must write to you; we must correspond. William, dear William,
write often,--write kindly; tell me, in every letter, that you love
me,--that you love only me; that you will be patient, and confide."

"Dear Lucretia," said Mainwaring, tenderly, and moved by the pathos
of her earnest and imploring voice, "but you forget: the bag is always
brought first to Sir Miles; he will recognize my hand. And to whom can
you trust your own letters?"

"True," replied Lucretia, despondingly; and there was a pause. Suddenly
she lifted her head, and cried: "But your father's house is not far from
this,--not ten miles; we can find a spot at the remote end of the park,
near the path through the great wood: there I can leave my letters;
there I can find yours."

"But it must be seldom. If any of Sir Miles's servants see me, if--"

"Oh, William, William, this is not the language of love!"

"Forgive me,--I think of you!"

"Love thinks of nothing but itself; it is tyrannical, absorbing,--it
forgets even the object loved; it feeds on danger; it strengthens by
obstacles," said Lucretia, tossing her hair from her forehead, and with
an expression of dark and wild power on her brow and in her eyes. "Fear
not