hat I have no
suit to press; had I, I would not dare to touch that hand."

Madeline, wondering and embarrassed, gave him her hand; he held it for a
moment with a trembling clasp, pressed it to his lips, and then resigned
it.

"Yes, Madeline, my cousin, my sweet cousin; I have loved you deeply, but
silently, long before my heart could unravel the mystery of the feelings
with which it glowed. But this--all this--it were now idle to repeat.
I know that I have no hope of return; that the heart whose possession
would have made my whole life a dream, a transport, is given to another.
I have not sought you now, Madeline, to repine at this, or to vex you by
the tale of any suffering I may endure: I am come only to give you the
parting wishes, the parting blessing, of one, who, wherever he goes,
or whatever befall him, will always think of you as the brightest and
loveliest of human beings. May you be happy, yes even with another!"

"Oh, Walter!" said Madeline, affected to tears, "if I ever
encouraged--if I ever led you to hope for more than the warm, the
sisterly affection I bear you, how bitterly I should reproach myself!"

"You never did, dear Madeline; I asked for no inducement to love you,--I
never dreamed of seeking a motive, or inquiring if I had cause to hope.
But as I am now about to quit you, and as you confess you feel for me a
sister's affection, will you give me leave to speak to you as a brother
might?"

Madeline held her hand to him in frank cordiality: "Yes!" said she,
"speak!"

"Then," said Walter, turning away his head in a spirit of delicacy
that did him honour, "is it yet all too late for me to say one word of
caution as relates to--Eugene Aram?"

"Of caution! you alarm me, Walter; speak, has aught happened to him? I
saw him as lately as yourself. Does aught threaten him? Speak, I implore
you,--quick?"

"I know of no danger to him!" replied Walter, stung to perceive the
breathless anxiety with which Madeline spoke; "but pause, my cousin, may
there be no danger to you from this man?"

"Walter!"

"I grant him wise, learned, gentle,--nay, more than all, bearing about
him a spell, a fascination, by which he softens, or awes at will, and
which even I cannot resist. But yet his abstracted mood, his gloomy
life, certain words that have broken from him unawares,--certain
tell-tale emotions, which words of mine, heedlessly said, have fiercely
aroused, all united, inspire me,--shall I say it,--with fear an